


Mr. Psychopath

by Zingiber



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Drug Use, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, Pining, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Romance, Season/Series 04, Sexual Content, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-01-29 05:24:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 80,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12624204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zingiber/pseuds/Zingiber
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves... and everything he holds dear."John's life unravels.  Still reeling from the Magnussen case, he begins to question everything he thought he knew:  his marriage, his child's safety, and his relationship with Sherlock.  And a stranger has come to Baker Street with a case for Sherlock - one that will draw them into a dark conspiracy that threatens to consume them all.It's fine.  It's all fine.





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete and will update every Friday. Special thanks to my friend Stellan for the Britpicking - all other mistakes are my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is complete and will update every Friday. Special thanks to my friend Stellan for the Britpicking - all other mistakes are my own.
> 
> This story takes place after the events of The Abominable Bride - i.e. Series 4 does not exist. There may be references here and there, but those are intended more as homages than direct references to the plot series 4 follows.

 

            In the grey light of morning, London is blanketed by thick fog that clings to pavement and roils off the Thames.  City bustle is softened into ghost figures, the muted rumble of engines, and the orange halos of streetlamps.  People emerge from the mist and vanish back into it, sweeping out of sight in the space of a breath.  

As I depart the Tube station and climb up to Baker Street, I watch my fellow travelers disperse into the mist with more interest than the typical city-goer generally allows.  It’s too easy to imagine myself whisked back in time, to envision top hats, bowler hats, bonnets, trailing skirts.  A tourist’s fancy, I know, but it can’t be helped.  

My thoughts skitter along whims and fancies as I walk slowly down the sidewalk, hands shoved into my coat pockets.  Following this impulse may have been a mistake.  On the Tube, the nerves weren’t so bad – there was something soothing about relinquishing control, letting a mindless machine guide me along the path.  But the last steps are my own, and they falter with every passing moment.  I come to the street corner and pause, knowing I need to cross.  Lacking the courage.  

I pivot and take a few steps back toward the Tube, only to stop again.  Cursing my cowardice, I plant myself at the corner and wait to cross.  My hands shake in my pockets.  I put that down to the clinging fog.  

 _This is stupid,_ I think.  The light changes to a little walking figure and I follow suit, stepping mechanically onto the street.  Sweat prickles at the back of my neck and my stomach is twisting into knots.   _They won’t see me.  They’ll take one look at me and send me packing._

I’ve only heard stories, but those are enough to give anyone pause, much less someone like… me.  Sherlock Holmes is arrogant, acerbic, and dismissive.  The kind of man who makes you feel like filth he’s just scraped off the bottom of his shoe.  His partner, Dr. John Watson, isn’t much better.  

 _Oh,_ I was told, _he’ll smile at you, all right, and be polite as you please.  But don’t let that fool you.  He’s a dangerous man._

The café comes into view first.  Shrouded by fog, its awning is the color of faded rust.  “Speedy’s Sandwich Bar & Café,” it announces in dull, ditchwater print.  A row of colorful soda cans stands on the windowsill.  Beyond, people are hunched over breakfast in their booths.  I haven’t eaten yet, but anxiety sits in my stomach like a stone.  Haven’t got an appetite.  

My gaze wanders to the door to the left of the café as if magnetized.  A worn number stares back, positioned invitingly above a knocker.  I walk to the first step and hesitate.  There’s a buzzer, too, and I can’t believe I’m dithering over a damn buzzer, but does it matter which one I choose?  Is Sherlock Holmes going to deduce and dismiss me before I get into the flat?

“Right,” I mutter.  “Get a grip.”  

Lifting my chin, I jab the buzzer once, firmly.  If the famous detective is half as good as they say he is, he’ll know I mean business.  

There is a beat of silence after I lower my hand.  Two beats, three…  Maybe nobody is home.  Relief and disappointment war within me as I step back, jostling a passerby.  He shoots me a sidelong scowl as he strides past.  It won’t be long before London is fully awake and humming with the multitudes on their way to work, to breakfast, to appointments.  I can’t just camp out on the doorstep.

Just as I’m about to turn around and leave – maybe back to the Tube or to a nearby park to stomp around and burn off some nervous energy – a faint cry sounds beyond the door.  I freeze.  The creak of hinges breaks through my shock and I turn.  A little old woman peers out the sliver of open door.  She’s small, reedy, and looks like a stray breeze would knock her over.  She smiles questioningly.  

“Can I help you?” she asks.  

“Yes,” I manage.  I lick my lips and nod.  Something in the old woman’s stare sharpens, but I don’t let myself dwell on it.  Can’t lose my momentum.  “I’m.  I’m looking for Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.  Are they in?”

The sliver widens as the old woman pushes open the door.  Beyond her, a warmly-lit hallway is bisected by a stairwell and the entrance to a ground-floor flat.  My eyes wander to the stairwell, into the darkness above.  

I drag my attention back to the old woman.  Her smile has gone soft.  “Why don’t you come in?”

 

 


	2. CHAPTER ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is complete and will update every Friday. Special thanks to my friend Stellan for the Britpicking - all other mistakes are my own.
> 
> The prologue and chapter 1 are a double update, but following chapters will be once a week. My Tumblr username is Zingiberis if you would like to contact me.

 

            He had just finished a job in Berlin when he got the text.  

            From the window of a fourth-floor flat on the northern banks of the Spree, he scanned the ash-grey sky with vacant eyes.  Below, jagged ice flows glided down the river like an armada on the way to war.  Sunlight seeped through the clouds, washing skyscrapers and gabled, persimmon-colored rooftops with a pale gleam.  

Boredom encroached and he summoned memories of the previous day, when he had tracked his mark into Lichtenberg before putting it down.  The mark – a businessman who had gotten on the wrong neo-Nazi’s bad side – had not been clever enough to evade him, but he _had_ been wealthy enough to hire tight security.  Getting around his goons had been good sport.  

He hummed, drumming his fingers on the windowsill, remembering the feeling of sticky, clotting warmth on his palms.  Under his fingernails.  A smile stretched his mouth.  

A buzz cut through his reverie, and he tugged his cellphone out of his pocket to study the screen.  The text was from an unknown number, though the country code was from the United Kingdom.  Bemused, he thumbed the screen open and read on:

_The net is closing.  Get out._

He frowned, cocked his head.  Slowly, he typed out a response.

 _Sorry,_ _I think you have the wrong number.  I’m cool right where I am._

The reply was immediate, as if the sender had composed it while he was typing and waited, finger hovering over the ‘Send’ button.

_The King is dead.  Long live the King._

He froze, thrilled to the very marrow of his bones.  Cautious optimism buoyed in his chest as his thumbs moved.   

 _Here be dragons._  He waited with baited breath; the reply knocked it out of him in a convulsive bark of laughter.  

_Every story needs a good old-fashioned villain._

He was lost for several minutes, dragged into a riptide of delirious, incandescent mirth.  If anyone on the pavement below had looked up and seen him standing at the window – wheezing, giggling, hands covering his face, tears streaming between the gaps in his fingers – they would have thought him a madman.  They would have quickened their pace, eager to put as much distance between themselves and the raw, wild emotion in human skin.  Base instinct would brand him as _wrong –_ a mutilated thing.

When he came back to himself, he replied, fingers clumsy and punch-drunk.   _And here I thought you’d rotted away in a ditch somewhere.  Good to know you’re still on this side of the dirt._

 _No time to talk,_ the sender replied.   _Someone’s coming for you.  I can offer protection, but only if we work together.  Same turf._

_Is this you saying you miss me? ;)_

_It’s me saying I have a job for you.  You get clear of danger and I get an old friend back.  Interested?_

_You know I am,_ he sent back.   _Who’s after me?_

The ensuing silence was deafening; it ballooned in the flat, consuming air and sound and leaving an arid, ringing void in its wake.  When the text finally arrived, the accompanying buzz rattled up his arm, thrumming in his nerves.  

 _The new King,_ it read.   _The new Moriarty._

James Winter’s lips twisted in something like a smile.  

 

-

 

            The clink of the spoon against ceramic echoed throughout the flat – a stark, brittle sound.  Sherlock tapped the inside of the bowl once more and brought the spoon to eye-level, squinting.  His blurred, inverted reflection squinted back.  No residue – perfect.  

            Setting the bowl aside, Sherlock plucked a wrapped syringe, a capped needle, and a bottle of saline from the clutter of the tabletop.  He set the syringe and needle side-by-side, where the two bore silent witness as he wet a napkin in ethanol and cleaned the rubber cap of the bottle.  His hands shook as he put down the saline.  He swore under his breath, fingers fumbling the tab on the syringe, tearing away the wrapping.  

            Experience won out in the end.  In minutes, Sherlock had the saline simmering on a hot plate.  Anticipation bubbled in his veins as he retrieved the bowl and tipped it over the heated beaker.  A stream of white powder fanned out – pure pleasure in chemical form.  Seconds passed as the particles danced in the bubbles, and then they dissolved.  Sherlock shut off the hot plate and put the beaker on the countertop to cool.

“The baby’s on the way.”

Sherlock tensed, almost disrupting the beaker in his surprise.  “Oh?”

“Yeah.”  John stood in the kitchen doorway, beyond the wall of chemical equipment littering the table.  His posture was rigid.  Sherlock couldn’t see his hands, but he could imagine them with perfect clarity:  restless at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling.  

_Faint tremor in the left hand?  No.  Angry with me, not dissatisfied with his life._

“I was hoping you’d come,” said John at length.  Sherlock said nothing and John licked his lips, darted a look around the kitchen.  “Christ.  Bit different than in my day.”

Sherlock smothered an urge to race around the kitchen, sweeping away the detritus and evidence of his flatmate-less life.  There was too much to hide.  Charred spoons, used needles and syringes, crinkled sandwich bags with powder embedded in the creases.  Even an idiot could deduce what was happening, and John was marginally less stupid than most.  

“I didn’t think it was necessary,” said Sherlock.  Belatedly, he noticed that the beaker sat to his right, clearly visible.  Would John notice if he moved?  “Babies… not really my area.”

John hummed, sweeping his gaze across the table.  His attention snagged on a used syringe.  “Yeah, you might have a point, there.  The whole lot isn’t really your area.”

“Babies.”

“No.  People.”

Sherlock leaned back against the counter, fingers curling around the cool edge.  “Well, since we’re of the same mind, perhaps you should trot back to the hospital.  Mary won’t like giving birth alone.”  

John didn’t dignify him with a response.  His eyes roved over the clues scattered across the table, catching here and there, tearing away like a plaster on an oozing cut.  Probably he was embarrassed to be a junkie’s friend.  Or maybe he didn’t like the smell.

Brazenly, Sherlock pushed away from the counter and retrieved a needle and filter.  He drew up the contents of the beaker, twisted the filter into place, and expelled the solution into a new tube.  As he repeated the process with a new filter, John’s stare weighed on him like a boulder.  A part of him was anxious to get this over with, if only to make John leave.  

“Thought that was for the case with Magnussen,” John said.

“It is,” said Sherlock.  He lifted the syringe full of twice-filtered solution and flicked the barrel, dislodging bubbles.  

“That case is over, Sherlock.  Has been for nearly a month.  Magnussen is gone, so why—Jesus, Sherlock, could you not?  Not while I’m in front of you!”

Sherlock rolled up his sleeve, clenched his hand into a fist, and cinched thumb and middle finger around the arteries of his wrist.  Blue rivers rose along the pockmarked landscape of his forearm.

Not so very long ago, John had devised distractions to keep Sherlock’s mind off the drugs.  They never worked, not completely – Sherlock’s wits were too quick, darting from Cluedo to _morphine_ and cases to _cocaine_ like a hare darting between the safety of its den and the delicious thrill of the garden.  

Now, though – now John was gone, and there was no safe haven to retreat to.  And the harvest was _so_ enticing.

“I hate that you do this to yourself,” John murmured.  “I hate that you’re doing this to me – making me stand by.”

“No one is making you _watch_ ,” Sherlock said curtly.  The needle slid home and he depressed the plunger.  “Don’t worry.  Just needed to relax.  Controlled usage, John.   Not addiction.”

“Right.”  John’s voice was hollow.  

Sherlock must have lost a few minutes in the encroaching fog; morphine had the unfortunate side-effect of poking holes in his memories.  Unacceptable for casework, but perfect when the gears of his mind needed to slow, lest they rub raw and burn.  He was sinking into a warm pool of calm.  Everything had gone blurry and soft.  

John.  Where was John?  

Sherlock craned his neck and scanned the room, but there was no sign of John.  He must have left.  Didn’t want to waste time on a losing battle when he could be holding his newborn daughter.  Sherlock dropped his head back onto the seat cushion.  A shimmering fog floated on the backs of his eyelids.  

A soft tap at the front door.  “Yoo-hoo!  Sherlock?  Are you still in here?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered open and he beheld his landlady-not-housekeeper standing on the threshold.  Her expression was pinched.  

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said.  “I wish you wouldn’t, really, you know I do—”

“Did you have something _important_ to tell me, or did you just… fancy a chat?” Sherlock interjected, or thought he did.  His tongue was heavy, his voice syrupy.  Mrs. Hudson shot him a reproachful look and he smiled.  “I don’t mind a chat.”

“Well, now I’m certain you’re high as a kite,” Mrs. Hudson remarked.  

“John might have told you as much, when he left.”

“What?”  Mrs. Hudson looked over her shoulder, as if John Watson may have passed her in the hall without her seeing.  “What are you talking about?”

“John,” Sherlock said.  “Here only a little while ago.  Nattering on about… the baby.  On the way, wanted me to come along.”

“You’re in a right state.”

“Mm.  Wasn’t at the time, no.”  Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to reply, but he continued, drifting slowly but inexorably onward.  “Didn’t see the point.  All babies look the same, so why bother going to see another one?  Not my area, John agreed.  Best to leave me out of it.”

“Oh, Sherlock, you can’t believe that’s true.  John—”

“Left,” said Sherlock, biting off the word with relish.  “Just a little while ago.  Probably in a foul temper, can’t remember, to be perfectly honest.  Didn’t you hear the door slam?”

“Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson, “I didn’t hear the door open or close, and I had the door to my flat open all morning.”

“Well, obviously you didn’t hear it, with all the bustling and cleaning you do.  No doubt you were singing some dreadful Iron Madame or whatever and you didn’t hear.”

Mrs. Hudson made no reply for several minutes; when she finally spoke, her voice was leaden with worry.  “I don’t think John was by, no.  He only phoned me a few minutes ago from hospital.”

Sherlock fell still as understanding settled slowly into place.   _Oh._  

“I need a case,” he said.  His mind was running rampant, filling out the digits of Wiggins’ mobile phone, _I need something stronger, get me cocaine—_

No, no.  Morphine use could be controlled, but cocaine was another beast entirely.  A case was what he needed, a good, tricky case, something he could set his teeth into, something frenzied and fantastic.  

John’s amazement as they stood on the banks of the Thames with Lestrade, Alex Woodbridge’s corpse lying at their feet.  John’s wondering grin, the kind that lit him from within, piling wrinkles at the sides of his mouth and under his _blueblueblue_ eyes—

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, wiping the image from his mind’s eye.  “I assume you came up here for a reason and not just to waste both of our time, so _what is it_?  If you aren’t going to bring me cases, at least make yourself useful and stop offering your unsolicited opinions and start offering cups of tea, or at the very least, some of your herbal soothers.”

Mrs. Hudson planted her hands on her hips.  “Sherlock Holmes,” she said, in the tone of someone about to launch into a scathing tirade, “if you think I’m going to—to contribute to your habit, you’d better think again.”

“I’ve got professionals for that,” said Sherlock, “not retired exotic dancers.”

“ _You_ —”  Mrs. Hudson cut herself short with a shaky inhalation.  She smoothed her hands down the front of her creaseless skirt and said, very primly, “There’s a client here for you.  I can tell them you aren’t available, though, since you’re currently… up in the stratosphere, I suppose.”

“That sounds like a space reference,” said Sherlock warily.  Mrs. Hudson turned to leave and he all but leapt off the sofa, stumbling in his haste.  He gripped the armrest and waved his free hand at her.  “No, no.  Bring them up.  I’m fine.”

“I won’t have you antagonizing people who’ve come to you for help.”

“If they aren’t idiots and they have a good case, I won’t,” said Sherlock.  Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes.  “Better than sending them packing with no help at all,” he added.  

Mrs. Hudson sighed in defeat.  “Fine.  But if you make a nuisance of yourself—”

“Come up!” Sherlock bellowed at the stairwell, unable to restrain himself.  

He staggered past Mrs. Hudson, who tittered angrily as she made way.  Sherlock peered down the stairs.  A large, dark figure stood at the landing, hands thrust deep in its coat pockets.  As Sherlock’s vision reassembled into a coherent image, he made out the features clearly:  male, early forties, black.  Closely-cropped hair, neatly-trimmed beard, symmetrical features.  Straight posture, feet planted apart:  ready for action.  Dark eyes looked up at him, calm and assessing.

“Mr. Holmes?” he said.  His accent, though native to London, had been broadened by time in America.  West Coast, possibly.  “My name is Alexander Grant.  I’ve got a problem I think you could help me with.”

“Come up,” Sherlock repeated.  “But your case had better be interesting, or I’m going to be very cross.”

 

-

 

“You’ve reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.  The only one in the world.  I can’t come to the phone right now – either I’m on a case or I’m prematurely so bored of whatever little trifle you’ve come to bother me with that I’ve slipped into a coma.  Either way, not answering.  Leave a message if your case is better than a four.  If not, don’t bother.”

John lowered his mobile and glared at the screen.  “Cock,” he muttered, and jabbed the ‘End Call’ button with a vehement forefinger.  Sherlock’s picture – a sneering candid – faded into black.  

“All right?” Mary murmured.  A snuffling whimper followed and her voice dropped to a croon.  “Oh, shush, love, go back to sleep…”

Slipping his mobile into his pocket, John turned to Mary, who lay nested in the hospital bed with a bundle in her arms.  A tiny fist emerged from the swaddling, flailing in outrage.  Wordlessly, Mary turned the baby so she faced John, and his breath caught.  Red-faced and wrinkled, furious with the trial of birth, she looked no different than any other healthy newborn.    

She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.  

“It’s nothing,” he said, anger dissipating as he bent forward, catching the tiny fist.  He ran a finger over the baby’s knuckles.  Amazing, how new she was, and yet – a masterpiece in miniature.  His throat closed around a sudden wave of emotion, a chink opened in his armor, and he said, “It’s just… Sherlock.”

“Not answering his phone, is he.  How many times have you called?”

“A few.”  Ten, at least.  Dozens of unanswered texts.  And one call to Mrs. Hudson, but he knew there was little the landlady could do.  If Sherlock didn’t want to come, he wouldn’t.  It was as simple as that.  “He’s probably busy with a case.”

Mary’s mouth twisted, but she made no remark.  She turned the baby back to her breast, holding her close.  “Hush, lovey, hush.  There’s a dear…”  As she clucked and hummed, the baby’s whimpers dwindled into the muffled rhythm of sleep.

“I wanted him to be her godfather,” said John.  

This was an issue over which he and Mary had built a tenuous compromise.  She hadn’t been keen on Sherlock as the godfather at first; too unpredictable, she’d said, him always dashing into danger.  John had pointed out that she was a former assassin and retired CIA agent.  She had gone quiet for a long while, and John had braced himself for another falling out – there had been many, in those first weeks after he moved back to the house.  But after a weighty pause, she simply nodded her consent.

“It doesn’t really matter, anyway,” she had said.  “Nowadays, it’s only an honorary title.  And it’s not as if Sherlock would…”  She trailed off with a snort.  “Sure.  Let’s give it a go.”

“He’ll do it,” John had said.

Sherlock’s absence in the hospital room was a fine reward for John’s trust.  The memory came back like a surge of bile – sour, foreboding.  He glanced at Mary.  The exhaustion in her eyes was tempered by a knowing gleam.   _Didn’t I tell you this would happen?_

Mary’s skepticism about Sherlock as a godfather had not been a solitary event.  It was a link in a long chain of doubts cinched tightly around the Magnussen case, though John was hard-pressed to pinpoint the fitting that held the chain taut.  Was it when Sherlock shot Magnussen?  When he drugged Mary despite her pregnancy?  Or was it before all that - when he tricked her into revealing herself in John’s presence?  

Was it the moment he caught her in Magnussen’s flat?

John’s case for Sherlock was not helped by the consulting detective’s long silences and absence from the Watson household.  When Moriarty announced his return - _“Miss me?  Miss me?”_ tangling through the city, polluting every functioning screen with his dead, reptilian eyes, his automaton mouth - Sherlock had flown into the fray like a bolt of lightning, moving too fast, burning too brightly for John to grasp.  

John had wanted to _talk_ , damn it.  He couldn’t ignore the conversation they’d had moments before Sherlock boarded his jet, off to be a hero in Eastern-bloody-Europe.  He couldn’t ignore the _never had the chance to say it,_ the _Sherlock is a girl’s name_.  

The following month was a blur of missed calls, preparing for the baby, missed calls, fighting with Mary, and more missed calls.  He visited Baker Street only for Mrs. Hudson to apologize and tell him Sherlock was out.  Always out on cases, she said, or pestering that lovely girl at the morgue, or bickering with his brother at that stuffy old club, you know, the one where they lose their wits if you utter a word?  

Eventually, John had stopped going.  He could take a hint, and he was beginning to feel like he was bullying Mrs. Hudson, whose eyes took on a telltale sheen before he could even ask the question.  With every passing day, the chasm between him and Sherlock yawned wider, deeper.  John could see no way to cross, especially if Sherlock didn’t want him by his side.  

“We need,” John began, then fell silent.  Worked past the lump in his throat.  “We need to name her.”  One of many decisions they hadn’t reached in the month since Magnussen’s demise.  “I thought maybe Cather—”

“Rosamund,” said Mary, raising her head.  “Rosamund Mary.”

John stopped in surprise.  “You never mentioned that name.”

“Oh, John, I’m…”  Mary looked down on the dozing baby’s face, blinking hard.  Her lips pulled into a tremulous smile.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but when you were… when you were gone, I started thinking up names.  You know, to pass the time, and… well.  It felt like a little secret between the two of us.”  She kissed the top of the baby’s head.  “For so long, it was just us.  Just me and the baby.  I guess I ended up naming her in my mind.”

“Mary.”  Guilt choked him.  Mary had endured most of the pregnancy alone, and John couldn’t forgive himself for that.  

 _She shot him,_ he thought, staring at the tender tableau before him:  mother and daughter, both healthy and whole.   _She shot him, and I don’t believe Sherlock for a minute when he says it was ‘surgery.’  Sherlock Holmes acts like he’s invincible, but being shot changes you.  I know that better than most._

“I’d like to talk about this some more,” John said.  

Mary tore her gaze away from the baby and looked at John, eyes wide.  She veiled her expression an instant later, but not quickly enough to escape John’s notice.  His heart clenched; he may as well have slapped her.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, after a weighty pause.  “I only want us to be…”  Again, his throat closed.  He couldn’t say it, couldn’t wish for them to be like they had been before.  That had been a lifetime ago.  He tried a different track.  “Rosamund is a lovely name.”

Mary smiled.  “John.”  She pried one hand away from the baby – from _Rosamund_ – and offered it to him.  John took the proffered hand and sat on the edge of the bed.  He held out his arms for the baby, but she shook her head.  “I’ve got her.”

John took in the site of Rosamund with newfound wonder.  A baby – someone who could grow, create, and experience an entire life of their own.  Someone whose mind and body and agency would, in the end, be theirs alone.  

 _Incredible,_ he thought, _that something so infinite could come from me and Mary._

The notion rattled in his skull like a blow.  Why was it incredible?  Why couldn’t it simply be the next step in his life with Mary?  

John knew why; he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, but he was no fool.  Seeing Rosamund cradled in the crook of Mary’s arm – the arm that had pointed a gun at Sherlock – he was paralyzed by uncertainty.  A good husband would forgive his wife and focus on being a father to his child.  A good husband would put his family’s needs above those of a friend who couldn’t be bothered to show up for the birth of his goddaughter.   

John had no Mind Palace.  His memory was less convoluted, more direct.  As far as memory tricks went, he needed a single folder, into which the sheaf of Sherlock’s medical report was tucked.  

_Bullet wound to the lower right diaphragm, just beneath the sternum.  Upper right lobe of liver lacerated, segment IV.  Bullet lodged to the right of the inferior vena cava, nicking it in the process.  Bullet shifted while patient was being moved for emergency surgery.  Patient flatlined and did not respond to attempted resuscitation._

_Patient was legally dead for two minutes and twenty-three seconds._

Mary’s voice brought him back with a start.  “All right?”

“Yeah,” said John.  Mary’s fingers were a cold, clammy vice around his.  

“Look at her,” Mary said.  “Rosamund Mary Watson.  Rosie.”

“Rosie,” John echoed.  “Our beautiful daughter.”

Mary said nothing; she was studying Rosie with an expression John recognized immediately, having only seen Mary wear it once, in the empty house in Leinster Gardens.  The exact same look had been stamped across her features when Sherlock flipped on the lights and she turned, realizing who waited at the end of the corridor.  

Fear.  It was so impossible and incongruous with the affection of moments ago that John did a double-take.  

“Mary?”

“Oh!”  Blinking hard, she rubbed her thumb across John’s knuckles.  “I’m sorry, John, I just… I don’t know, it must be the hormones.  The fact that she’s here, and no longer a part of me…”  She shrugged and chuckled.  “You must think I’m being very silly.”

“No,” said John.  He watched Rosie slumbering against her mother’s breast, her little chest rising and falling with every breath.  He had never felt this kind of love before.  He had never thought he would hold a new life in his hands, acting as nurturer, protector, and parent all at once.  

John knew then that he would do anything for Rosie.  He would do the noble thing, the good thing.  He would be the good husband and the good father.

“Rosie,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss the top of the baby’s head.

 

 


	3. CHAPTER TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Stellan for Britpicking!

 

Anyone who had not seen Alexander Grant move would have assumed he was a perfectly healthy – even powerful – man.  Straight-backed, Mr. Grant stood a few inches taller than Sherlock, and he was broad in the shoulders and chest.  The handshake he offered Sherlock was brisk but firm, attesting to a fount of hidden strength.  

“Why don’t you sit?” Mrs. Hudson said, gesturing to the stool between the two armchairs.  

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said.  “You can go now.”

“Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Grant?” Mrs. Hudson said, beaming at Mr. Grant.  If Sherlock hadn’t been speaking with her earlier, he would have suspected her herbal soothers were at play.  

“Please call me Alexander,” said the client.  He smiled warmly at the landlady, who looked as if she might expire on the spot.  “And a cup of tea would be lovely.  If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course not!” Mrs. Hudson fairly shrilled, and darted for the stairwell at what Sherlock suspected was, for a woman of her age, an inadvisable speed.  He settled into his armchair, annoyance unspooling into contentment as the familiar cushions hugged him close.  The morphine had hours to smolder through his system.  

“Are you alright?”  The rumble of Alexander’s voice dragged Sherlock back into focus, and he nodded, smiling.  His head felt large and precarious atop his neck, like the crown of a wilting daisy.  

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock, “just high.”

Alexander lapsed into a hush, eyes narrowed, as if he suspected the consulting detective was lying.  Sherlock watched as his stare slipped away and moved around the room, dropping onto blackened spoons and mugs of used syringes.  

“If this isn’t a good time,” Alexander said, “I can come back later.”

“No, no,” replied Sherlock.  “Even high, I can assure you I’m far cleverer than the majority of people in London.  You won’t find a _nice_ cleverer person, at any rate.  So, unless you’re considering turning to the criminal masses, it’s safe to say I’m your best bet.”

“Is that so.”

“’Course,” Sherlock said.  “Would you like a demonstration?”

He expected incredulity, a demand of evidence – but Alexander only shook his head.  His face was scrubbed clean of emotion.   

“There’s no need for that,” said Alexander.  “I’ve done my research.  It’s one of the reasons I came to you, rather than go to the police.”

“The _American_ police,” said Sherlock.  Alexander’s eyes widened a fraction, and Sherlock, delighted, pushed his advantage.  “Your accent is native to London, true, but it has the broader inflections of years in America.  Your accent is hardly noticeable.  Dropping your t’s, dragging your u’s, _et cetera_.”  He enunciated the phrase with relish.  Aside from the initial surprise, Alexander’s face betrayed nothing.  

“Your clothes say more,” Sherlock continued doggedly.  He flicked his eyes at the wool coat,   “Good brands, noted for quality and durability.  So, you can afford to dress well.  But that coat is from a Seattle-based company.  Very distinctive stitching ‘round the cuffs.”  He paused for a beat, but still Alexander’s face betrayed nothing.  

“You have money and perfectly good police in America.  Well, I say ‘good,’ but they’re probably just as inadequate as most law enforcement.”

“I said none of this was necessary,” said Alexander.  “I know you’re smart.  I’ve read the blog, the one by that bloke who follows you around.  John Watson, was it?”  He glanced around the kitchen, as if expecting to find John shooting up at the table.  “Is he here, too?”

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock spat.  “He isn’t around so much, not anymore.  Got a wife and baby, you see.”

Alexander’s reaction was so sudden that it caught Sherlock off-guard.  The man flinched as if slapped, and Sherlock was reminded of his crooked gait as he ascended the stairs.  In a hasty, ungainly movement, he was at the client’s side.  

“Better sit,” he said, tugging him toward the little stool.  “Mrs. Hudson will be quite put out if she returns to find you unconscious on the floor.”

Alexander tensed under his hand, eyes flashing bright and burning in a glare.  Sherlock released his sleeve and took one step back, instinctively planting his feet and turning slightly to present a narrower target.  Something told him that, crippled or no, this man would prove a formidable foe.  It was all in the posture, the bearing:  standing straight despite his leg, lifted chin, direct stare, hands clasped behind his back—

“Oh!”  Stupid, stupid!  How had he not seen it the moment Alexander entered the flat?  No doubt the morphine was to blame.  If cocaine had been simmering in his veins, he would have known in a flash, would have taken the man’s entire life apart by the scuffs on his leather shoes.  

“What.”  Alexander’s tone was curt.  “If you’re so keen, get on with it.”

“A soldier,” Sherlock said.  “Former soldier, of course.”  He nodded at Alexander’s right leg.  Then he paused, eyes narrowed as details emerged.  “You were injured in the army several years ago – ten at the outside.  You walk without a cane, which means you’ve had time to adjust to your altered gait.  The callouses on your right palm and fingers are faded, but they indicate experience with handguns.  I’ve studied callous patterns caused by the Sig Sauer L106A1 model extensively, and they’re a dead ringer for yours.”

“That is… impressive,” Alexander said at length.  

“It’s a start,” conceded Sherlock.  “But these pieces haven’t come together into a proper case.  Wealthy ex-soldier, born around London and lived in America for a time.  Won’t go to the police because…”  Sherlock scowled.  “Oh, don’t tell me this is some tawdry family scandal.  Can’t go to anyone in the good ol’ U-S-of-A because you’re afraid of… what?  Bad publicity?  The other socialites looking down their noses at you?”

“I’m no socialite,” Alexander said.  Without rancor, he added, “You are partially right, though.”

“Of course.”  Limbs leaden, he retreated to his armchair, sinking into the cushions with a sigh.  With a wave, he said, “Go on, then.”

Sherlock watched misgivings play across Alexander’s dark features.  The first step he took was halting, heavy.  His right foot dragged across the carpet, followed by the heavy thump of the left.  A lurching, off-kilter stride that sent Sherlock’s memories spinning back through the years, back to a smaller silhouette limping down darkened streets.  

_This is not a wound I can chase away._

Alexander’s hand cast out for the armchair across from Sherlock’s, and a noise of protest slipped from him before he could choke it.  The hand stilled.  Alexander looked at him.

“It’s… not,” Sherlock began, fumbling with the words.  “That isn’t the client’s chair.”  He pointed at the little wooden stool.  “That is.  Sorry, but rules are rules.”

“This is your business,” Alexander growled, but he obeyed.  The stool proved a comical perch for such a large man, but he made do, bracing hands on knees with a wince as he settled.  “Mr. Holmes,” he said, “you are correct in assuming that my case is about a family matter.  Someone is impersonating my daughter, Elizabeth.  They are using her information to steal money from a trust fund in her name.”

“And you won’t go to the police because you don’t want to threaten your daughter’s social standing,” Sherlock surmised.  “Bit old fashioned, but understandable.  Dull.”  He pursed his lips in disappointment.  This case was shaping up to be a three.  Four at the best.  

Alexander shook his head.  “That,” he said, “is where you are mistaken, Mr. Holmes.  My daughter – Effie, we called her – is dead.  Has been for the last five years.”

Sherlock sat motionless as he absorbed Alexander’s words.  The comment he had made about wives and children scant minutes ago came back like a blow.  

“I… I see,” he said.  

“Acute myeloid leukemia.”  The words fell through the still air like stones dropping into a well.  “We found it when she was four.  It was… aggressive.  Doctors did all they could, but the cancer moved to her spinal cord and brain.  Couldn’t be stopped.”

“You don’t need to tell me this.”

“She was five when she died,” said Alexander, voice remote.  

“I see,” Sherlock repeated.  He felt helpless, backed into a corner.  The morphine wasn’t working quickly enough, blotting out guilt and shame with seeping, mossy edges.  God, he wanted another hit.  

Alexander’s shoulders moved in a manner too weighty to be called a shrug.  “You can’t change the past,” he said.  “Anyway.  My wife and I had set up a trust fund for Effie before we found the cancer.  When she was… gone, I transferred the funds to a children’s cancer organization.  Just getting started, you see, but promising work.  Top-notch research.”

“I see,” said Sherlock a third time.  He hated repeating himself, but he sensed he was meant to agree and not actually contribute.  

“The trust fund,” Alexander continued, “was not to be used until the company – Goldenrod Research Hospital, that’s what it’s called – started on with its first patients.  Most of the ground level work was being funded by substantial grants, and I wanted Effie’s contribution to help the kids first.”

“You said ‘I,’” Sherlock noted.

“What?”

“When you talked about setting up the fund, you said _‘we.’_ You and your wife.  But then you switched to _‘I’_ when you transferred the funds to Goldenrod.”  

“Ah.”  Alexander looked down, fingers digging into the grooves of his kneecaps.  An unpleasant suspicion turned Sherlock’s stomach.  Clearing his throat, Alexander continued.  “My wife has been dead for the last four years, Mr. Holmes.  Right after Effie passed.  She… she couldn’t take the grief of it.”

A beat of silence, two, and Sherlock said, “I am sorry.”  He hated the sentiment, hated how hollow it sounded.  The pins and needles flooding through him whispered of false forgiveness:   _it’s okay, it’s fine, everything is just._

_Fine._

“The Grant family is fairly well-known in the business community,” Alexander continued.  “We manufacture tools for surgery – dental, mostly, and a bit of oropharyngeal.  We were recognizable enough that Effie’s death, and then my wife’s… well, there was a bit of a media circus.  Nothing huge, but it was more than I could handle.  So.”  He nodded at Sherlock.  “I wanted someone more discreet.  And apparently you’re the best there is.”

“I am,” said Sherlock.

“Tea!”  Mrs. Hudson’s voice resounded up the stairwell.  She appeared in the doorway moments later, a tray balanced expertly on one arm.  Sherlock’s head lolled as he took the measure of her.

“Ooh,” he said dryly, “the nice tea set.  Aren’t we feeling festive.”

“Oh, hush,” Mrs. Hudson said.  Her tone was light, but the look she shot Sherlock was venomous.  She offered the first cup to Alexander, beaming as he accepted it.  Lurid roses blared across white porcelain, making Sherlock’s eyes smart.  His lip curled.   _Obvious._

“Thank you,” said Alexander.

“Don’t you worry!” Mrs. Hudson said.  “I love making tea.  It’s one of my greatest pleasures.”

“You wouldn’t think it, given how much she gripes about not being my housekeeper,” Sherlock grumbled.  

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Hudson with a withering glare.  “I should have said ‘I love making tea for adults.’  Infants try my patience.”

“Har har.”

“He hasn’t chased you away, then?” Mrs. Hudson queried.  “Or been too terribly rude?”

“Not at all,” said Alexander.  “He’s just been listening to my case and deciding if he wants to take it on.”

“He will,” said Mrs. Hudson in a confidential stage-whisper.  

“I’m high,” Sherlock sniffed, glowering at the pair, “not deaf.”

“Really!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.  “Well then, you’ll answer your mobile phone the next time John rings you.  He only tried about a hundred times when little Rosie was born, so you can see why I wondered.”

As if on cue, Sherlock’s phone trilled.  He fell stone-still.  

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson cried.  The phone rang again and she jumped as if the noise was a gunshot.  A crack shot, aimed through two windows, aimed at giants and beasts, aimed at a coin, aimed at Sherlock—

 _Stop it,_ he ordered himself.  With fumbling fingers, he drew his mobile phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen.  

“Not John,” he said.  He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or annoyed.  Mrs. Hudson wilted with a sigh.  The phone chimed, insistent and sharp, and Sherlock glanced at Alexander.  “I will take your case, of course.  Sounds like it could shape up to a nice six, maybe a seven.   _Maybe_.  Send me your contact information and we can coordinate a meeting.”

“All—all right,” Alexander said, clearly wrong-footed.  “The email address on the blog?”

“My blog,” Sherlock corrected.  “Not John’s.  He’s not involved anymore.”  He swayed to his feet.  “Mrs. Hudson, be a lamb and keep Alexander company until he has to leave.  I’m afraid I’m being summoned away.”

“What?”  Alexander made to rise, clutching his teacup in one trembling hand as he braced his knee with the other.  “By who?”

“ _Whom._ ”  Sherlock exhaled the word on a sigh.  “And don’t bother getting up.  You can’t come along.  Mrs. Hudson, try not to be too much of a nuisance.”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” she retorted.  

“And if you must know,” said Sherlock, tugging his coat down from its peg and toeing on a pair of slippers, “I’m being summoned by the Queen.”

 

-

 

If Mycroft Holmes was surprised to see his little brother slip into the sleek, dark car in a t-shirt, sweatpants, slippers, and his coat, he didn’t let it show.  As Sherlock settled, Mycroft’s mouth tilted in a solicitous smile while his eyes scanned him from head to toe.  

“I see I’ve caught you at a bad time,” he sneered.  “Apologies.”

“Is something ‘caught’ if it doesn’t care?” Sherlock shot back.  

Mycroft pursed his lips.  He raised a lazy hand and the car trundled into motion.   “Ever the philosopher, aren’t you?”

“If you’ve got something to say, say it.  As much as I _love_ spending time with you, I do have a life and a job.  I’m busy.”

“Really,” said Mycroft.  He interlaced his gloved fingers in his lap and leaned back.  “At the rate you’re going, I daresay you won’t have either of those for long.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No.  An observation.”  Mycroft’s expression was slowly, slowly being weighed down, as if the burden of his mask was dragging at the flesh.  “I know I’ve been too… preoccupied lately, to attend to your poor decisions, numerous as they are.  Bit difficult, running an empire.”

“You’ve done it before.  I don’t see why it’s suddenly beyond you.  Age finally catching up to you, is it?  Or perhaps it’s the four pounds you’ve put on since last month.  Weight gain will do a number on your endurance.”

Mycroft’s expression soured.  “I seem to have a selective memory regarding you on morphine.  You’re insufferable as a rule, but this is intolerable.”

“Really?  I thought you liked me docile.”

“I like you _sensible_ ,” Mycroft said slowly, as though to a dim child.  “This is nothing of the kind.  This is… indolent.  Sloppy.”

Sherlock bared his teeth, half-way between a snarl and a grin.  “Did you visit simply to nag me about my personal life or did you have something meaningful to say?”

With a put-upon sigh, Mycroft picked up a folder and held it across the space between them.  Sherlock snatched it and flipped it open on his lap, perusing the contents.  Muddled as he was, the meaning of the documents was clear.  

“You’ve been busy,” he murmured, lifting one page to study more closely.  The grainy street camera shot was of a sallow man in an ill-fitting coat.  He stood in what appeared to be a market of a city square – Budapest, Sherlock mused.  His neck was craned over his shoulder, as if he sensed the camera’s eye.  “Kołek Niedziela.  Which sort of toady is he?”

“ _Was_ he,” Mycroft corrected crisply.  “He killed himself shortly after being delivered to a secure location.  Well.  Presumably secure.  Apparently table corners come very sharp in Belgrade.”  His eyebrows rose and fell in a manner of cast-off annoyance.  Sherlock wondered how many people had been sacked for that oversight.  

“Serbia is a sharp country,” Sherlock murmured.  “Ah, I see now.  Human trafficking.  Obvious.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said at length.  “In any case, he wasn’t the big fish we were hoping to catch.  He was chum.”

“Big fish?”  Sherlock lowered the file and began flipping through the others.  Weapons dealer, low-level drug pusher, recruiter—no, a trainer for the newly-initiated.  The last was a sniper, thin-faced with eyes like ice.  “Negretto Sylvius,” he read aloud, and chuckled.  “Bit of a fart in the bathtub.  Who was the big fish?”

“A hitman and hacker,” Mycroft said.  “Not in the upper echelon of the old organization, but not for lack of skill.  Our sources had him in Berlin, but when it came time to collect, he’d vanished.  We haven’t found a trace of him.”

Sherlock closed the folder and tossed it onto the seat beside Mycroft with a flap.  “And you want me to find him.  So very sorry, but I’m busy.  Besides, my last trip to Eastern Europe wasn’t exactly a treat.”

“Not at all,” said Mycroft, surprising him.  “I want you to keep an eye out for this man, nothing more.  He’s highly skilled, and therefore highly dangerous.  If you get so much as a whiff of him in London, I want you to tell me immediately.”

“You think he’s coming here?”  Sherlock was skeptical.  “If he knew to run, he knew who was coming after him.  Why would he hide in your territory?”

“We believe he may have a safe haven here,” said Mycroft.  “London may be, as you put it, my territory, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t a few cesspits within it I would be happy to see excised.”

“Gosh,” said Sherlock, “with an attitude like that, you’ll be a model ruler in no time.”

“It isn’t a sovereign title I’m interested in,” said Mycroft.  “It should also go without saying that, should you discover this hitman in London, you must inform me.  Do not confront him.  Do not give him any reason to suspect that I know of his whereabouts.”

“Dull,” Sherlock muttered.

“Necessary,” Mycroft corrected.  “Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.”

Sherlock snorted.  “Napoleon.  How very fitting.”

“Well.  Needs must, you know.”  Then, a shade more sternly, “Sherlock.  You must be on your guard.  With this hitman on the loose, and the good doctor’s wife—”

“Mary,” Sherlock cut in, “is under my protection.  I swore, Mycroft.  I vowed to her and to John – I swore to protect them.”  He paused, drew a deep breath.  “You believe Mary might offer this man shelter.  Do you have any proof?”

“She _shot_ you.”

“I’ve had many enemies, Big Brother.  Not all of them were connected to Moriarty.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment.  When he spoke, fury trembled in his voice.  

“If you see anything to do with this man,” Mycroft said, “or… if you feel unsafe in Mary Watson’s presence—”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock interjected.  Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and Sherlock sighed.  “Yes, I will keep an eye out for—what’s his name?”

“James Winter.”  Mycroft spat out the name as though it had a bitter taste.  

“American?”

“Yes, of course.”  Mycroft huffed.  “They appear to be the bane of our existence, between Winter and Mrs. Watson.”

“Mary,” Sherlock said, with all the sobriety he could muster, “is to be left out of this.  You can’t lock her up because you don’t like her, Mycroft.  She’s John’s wife, and the mother of his child.”  The words were thorns in his mouth, but they were the truth.  “What she’s done—the past is behind her.  Leave it be.”

Mycroft said nothing, but it was clear that his better judgment was wrestling against the sentiment he so abhorred.  Sherlock knew how that battle would end.  Mycroft always came to the logical conclusion, even if he had to step on love of family to do so.  

“Fine,” he said at last.  He waved at the driver through the partition.  Sherlock felt the car tilt as their course back to Baker Street commenced.  He sighed, shoulders slumping.  He had planned to be alone, and instead he’d had Mrs. Hudson, Alexander Grant, and the British government knocking down his door.  He wanted nothing more than to hole up in 221B and simmer through the rest of his high in peace.  

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, several minutes later.  The car had glided to a stop in front of the flat.  “The drugs need to stop.  You cannot continue like this.  You’re on the same road you took years ago – you know where it leads.”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, reaching for the door.

Mycroft continued as if he hadn’t heard him.  “If you insist on keeping it up, I’ll find whoever is supplying you and see they never work in London again.  Don’t think that I won’t.  I’ve become adept at uprooting weeds.”

“You can try.  I always like a good challenge.”

“Another thing,” said Mycroft, and something in his tone hooked Sherlock, held him motionless on the pavement while his brother squinted against the weak, gray sunlight.  “About Mary Watson.”

“Mycroft—”

“You counted her among your enemies.”  Mycroft’s words were like tar – clinging, refusing to be scrubbed away.  “Unless you mean she is your enemy solely in the sense that she is John Watson’s wife – a possibility I am willing to concede – you should exercise caution with her.”  He smiled benignly and reached for the door.  “Good day.”

As the car drifted down the street, Sherlock stood as if his feet were embedded in the pavement, fists clenched at his sides.  He stood for a few minutes, aware of sidelong glances, curious stares.  Well.  He _was_ standing outside in slippers, sweatpants, and his coat in the February cold.  

Above him, the sky was bleak and white, fat with clouds.  One or two snowflakes spun lazily down, heralding a storm.  Sherlock muttered a curse at the space where Mycroft’s car had waited, whirled around, and stomped back into the flat.  The door slammed shut behind him.

 

-

 

The following day, Sherlock got in touch with a hacker by the name of Craig Everill.  He had met Craig while investigating the robbery of a prominent security vault which – for annoying, Mycroft-related reasons – John was not allowed to immortalize on his blog.  A wealthy socialite’s antique jewelry had been stolen, and although Sherlock hadn’t given a fig about whether the woman had one less set of pearls to clutch, he _was_ intrigued by the robber’s methods.  The vault had, from all appearances, been completely untouched.  No security camera footage, no incorrectly-entered codes, no alternative route of entry.  The theft was so seamless that Sherlock suspected an inside job.  

The vault company and the Met, however, suspected Craig.  A freelance hacker who tested security systems by attempting to break into them, Craig had been perfectly primed to slip through the vault’s defenses.  He also had motive, as the company had hired him only to purposefully bungle the payment terms and give him a fraction of his quote.  Everyone but Sherlock suspected Craig.  

As usual, everyone but Sherlock was an idiot.  

In the end, Sherlock determined from the scuff marks on the welcome mat in the company lounge that the socialite’s jealous twin sister had lifted the jewelry.  The antiques had been a family heirloom, bequeathed from mother to eldest daughter through the generations.  The socialite, being a few minutes older than her sister, was the chosen heiress.  Nobody had suspected the sister – she lived in New Zealand and she was family, after all.  On a family holiday to the home country, she bullied her pretty, teenaged daughter into batting her eyelashes at the socialite’s son.  The boy had given up the code in a heartbeat.  

Craig helped collect a key piece of evidence.  Combing through the company’s security footage, he found a clip of the empty vault transposed neatly into the time frame when the jealous sister arrived at the bank to collect the jewels.  His name was cleared with a few keystrokes.   

Craig was the best in the business, and he owed his continued freedom to Sherlock.  The hacker agreed to see him in a week.  

Sherlock spent the next hour or two preparing for the case.  He looked up Goldenrod, learned all he could about the building and expansion of the company.  There was a branch dedicated to acute myeloid leukemia, but no mention of the Grant family among its founders.  No mention because the money intended for it had been stolen.  

Next, Sherlock researched the Grant family itself.  Their company, Grant Instruments, was based in Seattle, Washington.  As Alexander had said, they were prominently involved in manufacturing tools for dental and oropharyngeal surgeries.  Father an American heir, mother an English ENT.  Facts about the parents were easy to find, but there was little mention of Alexander.  Few articles acknowledged him, much less offered pictures.  That made sense, given how adamant he was that his dead wife and child not be dangled in front of the media.  

A search of said mother and child confirmed Sherlock’s suspicions – there was very little to be found on either one.  ‘Elizabeth Grant’ turned up old articles from 2010, but none of them went beyond a superficial description of the girl:   _‘young daughter of Grant family heir dies of cancer,’ ‘Elizabeth Grant, granddaughter of Grant Instruments, tragically succumbs to leukemia…’_

There was not a single picture of Effie or her mother to be found, but Sherlock wasn’t surprised.  As private as he was, it came as no surprise that Alexander would try to keep his wife and daughter out of the papers.   He could not, however, keep the details of their sad demise concealed.

Alexander’s wife had drowned herself in a lake north of Seattle.  Her death occurred barely a month after Effie’s.   

 _Left him alone,_ Sherlock thought.  

The rush of air whipping past his body, the plunge of gravity a hollow in his gut.  The crack of his body against the air bag, then onto the pavement.  Fingers warm on his wrist, searching, a voice wrenched and raw.   _“He’s my friend.”_

A knock at the door.  Sherlock jumped as though he had grabbed a live wire.  

“Sherlock?”  

Sherlock sat frozen before his laptop, fingers hovering over the keys.  He wanted to stand and saunter to the door.  He wanted to greet John Watson with an easy, disinterested smile.

“Sherlock?  You in there?”

Sherlock did not so much as twitch.  Why was John knocking?  He had a key.  Why didn’t he just – come in?  

Another knock.  Sherlock stood, moved on soundless feet toward the door.  The doorknob glinted in a shaft of afternoon sunlight, polished to a silver sheen.  

“Sherlock.”  John’s voice was soft, muted by the wood.  Sherlock’s hand twitched toward the doorknob and fell still.  John was muttering.  “…God’s sake…”

The scrape of a key in the lock made Sherlock take a few paces back, every nerve on alert.  The lock turned sideways as the bolt slid out of place.  The knob turned, infinitesimally slow.  The door opened a crack – and stopped.

John’s voice coalesced into a shard of speech.  “…why I bother…”  

Sherlock flinched as the door shut with a snap.  The clatter of hurried, uneven footsteps descending the staircase dwindled and vanished in the clamor of London outside.  Sherlock stared at the closed door.  His fingers twitched at his side.

Minutes later, his mobile phone chimed out a text alert.  Sherlock lifted the phone, thumbed it open, and stared at the screen.  A message from Mary: an image of John cradling a tiny, red-faced baby against his chest.  He was seated in a flimsy hospital chair, surrounded by sterile hospital walls, but the smile crinkling the corners of his lips brightened the entire room.  Sherlock stared at those lines, that light.  

_Thought you’d like to see Rosie since you never come ‘round.  M._

_Charming.  SH,_ Sherlock texted, fingers thick.

Mary’s response was prompt.   _I told John to go see you.  Is he there?  M._

Sherlock’s hands shook as he exited the conversation with Mary and opened a new one.  The contact was unsaved and he took care to delete their every exchange.  In less than a second, he extracted a number from a nook in his Mind Palace and tapped it into the phone.  

 _I need more,_ he texted.   _Higher dosage, if you’ve got it. SH_

 _I do_ , Wiggins replied.   _Got to be careful with it, though.  Toeing a line._

_I’m not paying for a lecture.  Just get it for me. SH_

_I’ll be around on Wednesday._

Sherlock’s thumb moved to the ‘Home’ button and hesitated.  His imagination was sprinting ahead of him, tracing the laugh lines around John’s mouth.  The skin was soft and warm beneath his fingertips.  

_I need something else, too.  Something more stimulating. SH_

Wiggins’ answer took several minutes to arrive.  The words were perfectly neutral, but Sherlock tasted a hint of wariness in the pocket of silence preceding them.  Anger curdled in his belly.  He wanted to take everyone’s worry, everyone’s meddling, and stamp them out.

 _Whatever you say,_ Wiggins said.   _Don’t make no difference to me._

 

 


	4. CHAPTER THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating early due to the scheduled downtime this evening. This chapter is not Brit-picked - incidentally, if anyone is willing to Britpick on a weekly schedule, please contact me either here or on tumblr at Zingiberis. I would really appreciate it!

 

John fumbled the keys out of his pocket, tilting the overstuffed bags of groceries against his chest.  He had only wanted to make one trip from the car, and his stubbornness was repaying him with swift vengeance.  The keys slipped from his fingers and his hand shot out, reflexes poised to catch them mid-tumble – but his arm seized with a grating of damaged nerves.  The keys struck the stoop with a muted clink.  

“Shit,” John hissed.  He relinquished one bag to the welcome mat, leaning it against the closed door, and bent to retrieve the keys.

John’s fingers spasmed and he swore a second time.  He pressed his hand to his thigh and waited a moment.  When at last he could hold the keys without his hand shaking, he unlocked the door, nudged it open, and picked up the bag.  

The air within the house was hushed with the reverence of a moment’s peace.  John deposited the bags on the kitchen table, careful to keep quiet.  For a one-month old, Rosie had freakish, bat-like hearing.  The slam of a door or the creak of a floorboard was enough to wake her.  She hated to be disturbed during a nap, and never hesitated to make her displeasure known.  In addition to keen ears, the girl had a healthy pair of lungs.

 _My temper, unfortunately,_ John thought.  

Slipping off his shoes, John padded across the lino and through the living room.  Mary tended to pass out on the sofa during Rosie’s sporadic silences, but her spot was empty.  A faint outline of her form creased the cushions.  

Silently, John climbed the stairs.  A baby gate leaned against the wall at the landing, unbolted.  John and Mary were running ragged as it was; he couldn’t imagine what chaos they would face when Rosie became mobile.  

Johns thoughts drifted over the past month as he slipped quietly toward the bedroom.  Four weeks was nowhere near enough to make John and Mary expert parents, but they were learning every day, every minute.  John could now hear the differences between Rosie’s cries:  when she was hungry, fidgety, afraid.  When John had first seen his daughter in the hospital, he had thought his heart full to bursting.  Now he was continually bewitched by her, amazed that his heart could hold his growing love.

The door to the bedroom was ajar, and dim within.  All was silent as he drew near.  Inside, the window was closed against the winter chill and the curtains were almost fully drawn.  

“…I see you!”  John turned from the window to see Mary leaning over Rosie’s crib, a fuzzy, pink blanket held in her hands.  Seemingly oblivious to John’s presence, she drew the blanket away from Rosie and covered her face.  Rosie gasped and coughed.  Mary dropped the blanket with a theatrical gasp.  “Peek-a-boo!  I see you!”

Rosie gurgled, flailing one tiny fist.  John was drawn into the room like the proverbial moth to the flame.  “Hello, darling.”  

Mary looked at him over her shoulder.  Her cheeks were pink and she was smiling.  “Hi.”

John cleared his throat, pushed past the emotion that had gripped him.  “Hey.  Got more nappies, and, oh, that cream you mentioned…”

Mary chuckled and tucked the pink blanket around the Rosie’s squirming form.  “Thanks.  It’s a godsend for the stretch marks.  Can you believe it, a whole month and I still don’t feel normal?  Everyone told me having a baby would change my body, and I thought they could all go hang.  I’ll be damned if they were right.”

John huffed noncommittally as he crossed the room to stand by her side.  Peering down at his daughter, he was unable to fight back the new wave of emotion gathering, slamming into him.  Rosie’s features were crumpled as if in discomfort.  She coughed and wrestled against the blanket.  

“All right?” he asked Mary.  “Is she coming down with a little cold?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mary.  Her fingers darted across the blanket’s downy edge.  “Might be this.  It’s starting to pill – see?  We should get her a new one.”

John nodded and tacked “new blankie” onto the ever-growing list of Rosie’s needs.  He reached into the crib and offered Rosie his hand.  Her fingers wrapped around his forefinger, tiny but strong.  She dragged his hand toward her and John obliged with a chuckle.  

“Powerful, isn’t she.”  

“Yeah.”  Mary propped the heels of her hands against the crib and pushed back, working out a crick in her neck.  “God, John, I don’t think I’ll ever stop being exhausted.  It’s just… so much.”

“Yeah,” John said.  He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Rosie.  

“But…”  Mary’s hand fell upon his free one, fingers tightening around the back of his palm.  “Look at her.  Look at what we made.”

In that moment – held at once by Rosie and Mary – John wondered if they could make it work.  He _wanted_ their marriage to work, wanted to make a happy home where Rosie could grow, always sheltered by her parents’ love.  He wanted to get back to the simplicity of before, when there had been no creeping around corners, when smiles and quips had been traded with ease.  The incredible, incandescent moments of sprinting through the lamp-lit streets, gun at his side, chasing—

A frown clouded John’s features.  In his mind, a voice both deep and petulant chastised him.   _Wrong, wrong!_

Mary shifted and drew near, her hand still grasping his.  She turned, silently bidding him to wind his arms around her.   

“John,” she murmured.  

Reluctantly, John tugged his finger away from Rosie and pivoted to open his arms to Mary.  She slid into the space with a sigh, pressing her nose against his neck.  John’s arms felt stiff, mechanical.  It was ridiculous – he had held her countless times.  They’d had sex countless times.  They were married.  Married with a baby.    

Mary’s lips moved against John’s neck and a jolt ran from the base of his feet to the top of his head.  “I want…”

A plaintive cry from the crib interrupted her.  John broke their embrace to stare into the cot.  Rosie’s brow was furrowed, mouth half-open on an indrawn breath.  John offered her his finger and she seized it, the looming tantrum abating.  

“Sorry, darling,” John said.  “There you are.  See?  Not the end of the world.”  Rosie grumbled and tugged on his finger.   

“You do so well with her,” Mary said.  They watched Rosie for a few moments before she spoke again.  “Oh, I forgot to mention – I was going to try picking up a half-shift this Saturday.  I asked Helen and she said it couldn’t hurt.  They’re understaffed and we could use the extra money.  Is that okay with you?”

“Helen,” John said.  The head nurse at their clinic was notorious for bending rules.   _Bureaucratic nonsense,_ she called them.

Mary nodded.  “I think I could manage it, and you have that day off.  I checked.”

_The doctor’s wife must be a little bit bored by now._

Sherlock, prone on the floor of Magnussen’s flat.  Unresponsive.  A bright, red stain blooming on his shirtfront.  How many times had Mary said she was doing one thing - work, seeing friends, staying home when John went out - and done something despicable instead?  How many people had she hurt while John stood blindly by?  

“Rosie and I can keep each other company for a few hours,” he said.  “I don’t think we’ll manage to burn the house down.”

“Rosie, I’m not so worried about,” said Mary.  She kissed his cheek.  “You’re the one who loves an adrenaline rush.  I might come back to find you’ve taken off to fight a whole den-full of junkies.”

John smiled, let the expression fall away as the weight of weariness draped over him.  Being plainly exhausted was a better excuse than any other he could concoct.  “Not after this week, I don’t think.  Been a long one.  Probably I’ll just… pass out with the baby monitor for a pillow.”

“Parenthood,” said Mary with a sage nod.  “Comes for us all in the end.  Well, as long as you aren’t teaching her how to use your gun or sprain some poor sod, I don’t care what you two get up to.  As long as…”  She averted her gaze.  When she next spoke, John heard the faintest tremor in her voice.  “…as long as you’re here, with me.  With us.”

John was keenly aware of Rosie’s fingers clasped around his, of Mary’s hand ghosting across his lower back.   _I can’t leave her_.  

His lips moved of their own volition.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

-

 

At the clinic a few days later, between wrapping up with his last patient and getting started on the weekly mountain of paperwork, John’s phone buzzed.  Nudging sheets aside, he retrieved the mobile phone and tapped the screen.  His left hand tracked a messy scrawl as his right pressed the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“John.”  Lestrade’s voice was tight with ill-restrained fury.  “John, you need to get down here and handle him.  He’s out of control.”

“What,” John breathed, stunned.  “What’s going on?”

“It’s Sherlock,” Lestrade said, unnecessarily.  “I called him to come to a crime scene – hadn’t seen him in a month, hadn’t had a good enough case – and he’s showed up, but he’s—”

A bellow in the background cut Lestrade short.  Shocked voices rose, distinguished by a familiar, high-pitched shout.  Lestrade’s voice added to the din:  “Donovan!  Leave off!”

“Greg,” John called.  Wind rustled over the line, followed by a huff as Lestrade returned.  

“Sorry, mate,” he said.  “It’s just—it’s a madhouse here.  You need to come and sort him out.”

“What _happened_?”

“He’s off his tits on something,” Lestrade said.  “He’s manic, running around the scene shouting deductions, not all of them about the case – poor Hopkins looks like she’s going to faint, _shit_ , and Donovan’s ready to take a swing at him.”

Sherlock’s voice roared into the space.  “…clearly an alcoholic!  For God’s sake, why are you lot even _here_?  You’re useless!”

John tensed, knuckles white around the mobile phone.  Such words were no cause for concern with Sherlock – they were his bread and butter at any given crime scene – but his voice was edged with a feral tone, as if he was seconds away from outright snarling.  There was nothing of the smug, cultured standard Sherlock strove for in that voice.  

John dropped his pen and clambered through his desk drawer for his keys.  “Where are you?”

Lestrade rattled off an address in Soho and John ended the call.  Soho was easily a forty-minute trip on the Tube.  Despite being housebound, Mary kept the car for emergencies.  John debated taking the bus back to the house to collect it, but dismissed the idea – it spent more time he didn’t have.  

John’s tugged open the lower desk drawer as doubts rushed through his mind.  The muzzle of the Sig glinted in the harsh office light.  Lately, he carried the gun far more often than was safe, never asking himself why.  It would be foolish to take it to a crime scene - practically begging for trouble.  

But Sherlock was at this crime scene, and trouble clung to him like a second shadow.

In the end, after excessive cursing, throwing on his jacket, shoving the gun into an inner pocket, and locking the office, John raced out and hailed a cab.  Something in his manner must have unnerved the cabbie, who sped Eastward at a quick clip.  

John flexed his hands in his lap and glanced out the window every few minutes, watching Victorian houses and squat, brick flats merge into a crammed labyrinth of bars, businesses, and stations.  When they finally arrived, he paid an exorbitant fee – Mary would be angry, but he didn’t care – and stepped out of the cab.  He stalked to the area cordoned off by police tape and spotted Lestrade amidst the throng.  

“Thank Christ,” Lestrade said as he approached.  John ducked under the tape and followed him through the cluster of police.  “He’s completely fucking mad, John.  I told him to leave and he started reciting Shakespeare at me.”

John opened his mouth to speak and closed it with a _click_.  They had passed the officers and stood before a corpse – male, mid-fifties or early sixties, podgy in his black trousers and button-up.  A loosened tie exposed his throat.  

This was not what gave John pause.  His attention was rooted on Sherlock, who dashed around the body like an errant fly.  One moment, he was crouching beside the man, microscope out; in the blink of an eye, he was up on his feet and storming toward an officer, who paled as he drew near.  

“You!” he bellowed, and the officer shrank back.  “What on Earth makes you think you’re qualified to be here?  Judging by the state of your cuffs, you’re clearly skivving off for trysts with your brother’s fiancé.  All we need is a janitor’s cupboard for a proper BBC drama!  Get!   _Out!_ ”  

The poor officer took a few paces back, trying to slink into anonymity in the crowd.  Sherlock’s attention flew back to the body.  His long legs ate up the distance in moments and he crouched, listing details with the speed of a Gatling gun.

 **“** Maître d' at an Italian restaurant, fully-fledged alcoholic, on-and-off relationship with girlfriend, an artist—no, a curator, _obvious!_  Faint nail scoring on his neck suggests nervous tic, fingernails stained from repeatedly inducing vomiting…”

“Please, John,” Lestrade begged, “get him out of here.”

“He—he isn’t my responsibility,” John said.  

Lestrade’s mouth flattened into a firm line.  “No,” he said, “he’s your friend.”

John averted his gaze in shame.  He noticed another man hovering on the periphery of the crowd, looking strangely at-ease.  Tall, broad, and black, his air of quiet competence cut a striking figure amidst the madness.  He reminded John of the tigers in documentaries – utterly still and silent, coiled to spring.   

“John!”  

Sherlock’s cry tore John’s focus away from the man.  The consulting detective was bounding toward him, mouth stretched into a wide grin.  But for his expression, he looked horrible – face pale and sheened with sweat, the grit of stubble smeared along his jawline.  His coat billowed, allowing a glimpse of the rail-thin frame underneath.  

“Sherlock.”  John didn’t know what to say.  Uncertainty warred with anger.  Here was Sherlock after a month of total silence – high on God-knows-what, and with one foot lowering into the grave.  John settled for anger. “What the _hell_ are you on?”

Sherlock drew back with an affronted look.  “For a doctor, you can be terribly obtuse.”

“Sher—mm.”  John crossed his arms to disguise his shaking hands.  He licked his lips.  Sherlock’s eyes darted to his mouth and away.  “So.  I don’t see or hear from you in a bloody month and this—this is what you’ve been doing?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Among other things.”

“He’s been an absolute terror.”  Donovan’s voice was indignant as she approached.  “Get him out of here.  He’s impeding our investigation.”

“Please,” Sherlock sneered.  “You lot are plenty good at impeding yourselves.  Don’t need my help.”

“You couldn’t be bothered to see my daughter because you were off getting high,” John seethed.  Sherlock’s gaze snapped back to him.  “You couldn’t be bothered to call me—us.  Mary’s been worried too, you know.”

“Technically, I did see your daughter,” Sherlock said.  “Several times.  Mary sends pictures.”

“Oh!”  John’s voice was louder and harsher than he had intended.  He was too angry to care.  “Well, I’m glad you can chat with my _wife_ , at least!”

“John,” said Sherlock, “I’m altogether too thrilled to deal with your tantrums right now.  First good case in a while – well, not good, actually.  I’ll solve it by the end of the day.  But still, better than waiting around while Craig chases hackers.”

“What—who the bloody hell is Craig?”

Sherlock waved his question away as he would a gnat.  “None of your concern.”

“Mr. Holmes.”  John whirled around to see the big man limping toward them.  His right leg had been terribly injured, judging from his slow, pained gait.  The man stopped, nodded at John in greeting, and turned to Sherlock.  “You called saying we could meet with Mr. Everill again.”

Sherlock’s face brightened.  “Oh, yes!  Of course!  Let’s be off!”

He bounded through the crowd of officers, who gave him a wide berth.  The big man followed at a considerably slower pace.  John was left beside the body, fury roiling in his gut.  At last he creaked into motion, trailing behind them.

Lestrade stopped him outside the police tape.  “John.  You haven’t spoken to him in a month?”

“No,” John snapped.  “Haven’t heard a word.”

“It’s just…”  Lestrade faltered, then continued, “Shit.  Sorry, I thought you were keeping in contact with him.  Didn’t make sense that he would close you off.  But I couldn’t work out why you would let…”  Again, he trailed off, but his silence was eloquent enough.  “Anyway.  Molly tells me he’s been pilfering things from Bart’s.  Filters and saline, mostly.  She tries to keep him in line, but she can only do so much.”  

“Maybe she should lock him out,” John muttered.

“Maybe,” the DI said coolly, “his _doctor_ should have a word with him.”

John bared his teeth in a farce of a smile and marched past Lestrade.  

Sherlock and the big man were standing on the curb when John caught up.  The consulting detective had one hand outstretched for a cab.  

“I’m coming with you,” John stated.

“You’re still here?” Sherlock said with a smirk.  “No need, John.  Alexander can help me.”  He nodded at the big man, who frowned and looked to John.

“You’re Dr. Watson?” he asked.  “I’ve read your blog.  Good stuff, that.”

“Thank you,” John said tightly.  Then, to Sherlock, “I wasn’t asking.”

“Don’t you have nappies to change?”

“Don’t you have a high to come off of?” John retorted.  “You shouldn’t be seeing clients like this.  Cocaine, right?”  He glanced at Alexander.  “You knew?”

Alexander did not look remotely as chastened as John would have liked.  “I won’t dictate what a man does with his time.  I’m not his mum.  It hasn’t interfered with him helping on my case yet, so I assume he has it under control.”

“You assume—”  John cut himself short with a slow exhale.  “Sherlock.  You know that stuff will kill you.”

“Remember when you called me a drama queen, John?” Sherlock inquired.  A cab glided off the street and halted before them.  “Ah, perfect timing.”  He rounded the side of the car, allowing Alexander to climb in through the nearest door.  John followed.  When Sherlock made to slam the door in his face, he caught the edge and leaned in close.

“If I’m not coming,” he said, “you aren’t going.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.  In the tepid light of dusk, they were a startling shade of gunmetal blue.  John realized he was staring, but the part of him that craved confrontation refused to back down.  Sherlock swallowed and looked away, making room on the seat.  John slid in beside him.

“Ta.”  

Sherlock cleared his throat.  In a low voice, he said, “You’ll get bored quickly.  This isn’t a gunfight.”

“I wasn’t planning on shooting anyone,” John muttered.

Sherlock’s eyes skated over the tell-tale bulge at his hip.  “Of course.”

John scowled at Sherlock, but the detective ignored him.  He gave the cabbie an address in Vauxhall and the car veered back into traffic.  John turned to glare out the window.  Every few seconds, he glanced at the reflection of Sherlock, imprinting the faint outline into his memory.  Those wide eyes, the line of that bobbing throat.  

_Pull yourself together, Watson._

When they arrived at a brick flat, Alexander struggled out of the cab and Sherlock followed with fluid grace.  The cabbie gave John a pointed look, and he reluctantly pulled out his wallet.  

He joined the pair on the stoop a minute later.  Sherlock jabbed the buzzer once, twice.  The hush of the cab was gone and he was vibrating with unspent energy.  

Sherlock jabbed the buzzer a third time and the door flew open to reveal an overweight young man.  Sallow skin, a grease-stained t-shirt, and worn sweatpants gave the impression that he hadn’t been outside in days.  With a smile that did not reach his eyes, he took Sherlock’s hand.

“Good to see you,” he said.  “Got some new info I think you’ll like.”

“Fabulous,” said Sherlock.  “Thank you, Craig.  Is Toby here?”

“’Course he is,” said Craig.  He stepped aside and Sherlock flounced into the flat.  Alexander limped after him.  John brought up the rear, casting Craig a narrow look.  

“Who’s Toby?” he demanded.  Between Alexander and Craig, John felt he had seen enough of Sherlock’s new friends for the day.

Craig’s eyebrows rose in an unimpressed look, but when he opened his mouth to reply, a languid bay rang throughout the corridor.  John jumped and looked up the stairwell mounted on the left wall.  A slavering hound stood at the top, droopy expression belied by a wagging tail.  

“Toby!” Sherlock cried, and raced up the stairs.  He stopped at a level with the dog and cupped its face in his hands.  Toby huffed as Sherlock massaged his floppy jowls.  “Who’s a good boy?”

John was stunned by a sucker-punch of affection.  Even in his state, Sherlock was the picture of childlike delight as he shifted his hands to scratch behind the hound’s ears.  

“Got something interesting to show you,” said Craig offhandedly.  “Think you’ll like it.  Tobes, c’mere.”

Sherlock descended the stairwell as though he had been the one called.  Toby stood still for a few moments, surveying the assembled humans with a dubious stare.  Then he huffed and slowly began padding down the stairs.  

“He,” proclaimed Sherlock, “is brilliant.  Truly a glorious, noble creature.”

Craig sniffed.  “Whatever you’re on, bring me some of it next time you come ‘round with impossible tasks.”

Without another word, he led the three to a sitting room, where he bade them sit on a sofa with cushions so deep John feared he would sink in and never be rescued.  He shifted uncomfortably as Craig pulled a laptop from a shelf crammed with more laptops, video games, and a tangle of wires.  Taking a seat across from them, he flipped open the laptop and began typing.  

John was acutely aware of Sherlock seated beside him.  The plush sofa cushions sank off-center, pushing the line of Sherlock’s thigh against John’s.  The  sheer energy and warmth of him was making it difficult to focus.  

“Here we are,” Craig said.  He turned the laptop so that the screen faced his audience.  “So.  Took me a while to track him down, but—”

“’Him?’” John interjected as a jolt of realization ran down his spine.  “You mean Moriarty?”  He glanced at Sherlock.  “This is about the ‘miss me’ videos, then?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Don’t be dense, John.  I solved that case ages ago – this is different.”

Startled, John managed to sputter, “Then who—”

“I do apologize, Craig,” Sherlock interrupted.  “Don’t mind him.  Please continue.”

The glower John shot at Sherlock was breezily ignored.  Over Sherlock’s shoulder, John caught Alexander watching them.  He did not flinch when John met his eye, but looked away after a lingering moment.   

“Anyway,” said Craig, “when you asked me last month to track the person or persons skimming from your trust fund,” he nodded at Alexander, “I assumed it’d be an easy job.  Your vault company, SteelSafe – it’s got decent security.  But nothing new, really.  Might want to let them know when you get back.”

“Noted,” Alexander said, voice tight.

“Right.”  Glancing down at the screen from above, Craig indicated an image of a security lock attached by one line to a knot of what looked like wires.  A second line exited the opposite side of the knot, connecting to a generic human icon.  “So.  We’ve got SteelSafe here.”  He tapped the security lock.  “Hacker’s path of ingress here.”  The single line attaching the lock to the knot.  “And they’ve got a system that tangles their trail up in this unholy mess.”  His forefinger tapped the knot of wires.  “That’s what took me so long to work out.  Every time I thought I’d found the path, it turned out to be some nonsense code taking me to the wrong location.  Eastern Europe, Midwestern America… you get it.”

“How do you know the money wasn’t going there?” said John, scrambling for a foothold in the conversation.  

“Because I checked.  That’s what took me a little more time. Hacking into those systems was easy enough, but tracking and eliminating the fakes was another matter.  ‘Sides, I’ve got other jobs on.”

“But you’ve found the real location,” said Sherlock. “You’ve untangled the knot.”

“Yep.”  Craig turned the laptop back around, tapped at the keys, and turned it again.  A wall of code was presented to the trio, none of which John found remotely comprehensible.  The hacker pointed to a line near the bottom of the text.  “The funds were being rerouted to a bank in Norway, which were then being transferred to London.  Here’s the address.  Flat in Peckham.”

Sherlock leapt from the sofa like a released spring.  “Wonderful.  Spectacular!  Alexander, let’s be on our way.  Craig, perhaps you could get John a cuppa until he gets bored or is summoned away to suck bogies out of little Rosamund Mary’s nose.”

“What,” John snapped.

Sherlock pressed his thumb and fingers together in a squeezing motion.  “Oh, you know what I’m talking about.  Infants are notoriously helpless.  A single clogged nostril will put them out of commission.”

“Yeah, um.”  John stood and, though Sherlock loomed above him, managed to look upon the detective with a captain’s disdain for an unruly underling.  “If you could pull your head out of your arse, Sherlock, that would be fantastic.  I think we can both agree that I’m generally helpful when you go rushing into danger, yeah?  So, shut.  It.”

Sherlock, Alexander, and Craig stared at John in a hush of surprise.  Sherlock was the first to recover; his lip curled in a sneer and he shouldered past, striding into the hallway and out the door without a word.  

“Did you two have a row?” Alexander asked.

“No,” John spat, “though it’s not really any of your business, is it?”

He stalked after Sherlock and shoved the front door open.  The detective was waiting on the pavement, hands shoved deep in his pockets and shoulders braced against the chill.  John came to his side and Sherlock leaned away, as if his mere presence was repellent.  

“Look,” said John.  “I don’t know what your issue is, but I only want to help.”

“Really.”

“I’m not the one who’s been hiding away for a month.”

The door creaked open, heralding Alexander’s arrival.  John scowled at passing cars as the man limped to their side.  Stiffly, Sherlock drew one hand from his pocket to hail a cab.  The ensuing silence was heavy, following them into the inevitable cab like a poisonous smog.  

As they neared Peckham, John turned his glare again to the window, refusing to so much as acknowledge Sherlock’s outline.  Rather, his eyes tracked to the dim figure of Alexander – a quiet presence, but too formidable to ignore.  Why was he following Sherlock?  He was only a client – they came for help with their cases, but they never actively participated.  They waited on the sidelines, helpless and simpering, while Sherlock and John ran headlong into danger.  Why was Sherlock – by his own skewed standards – being so friendly with him?  

John’s mind balked at the thought of being replaced, but if that was Sherlock’s intent, he had surely improved on a few aspects of his old partner.  Alexander was tall and broad where John was short and… well, not thin, but certainly not bulky.  He’d been well on his way to hefty when Mary started teasing him about his weight.  And true, Alexander’s limp would be an obstacle to cases, but Sherlock had never shied away from John’s injury.  Perhaps he found it amusing – taking broken people and molding them into worthy subordinates.  

The squeal of brakes jerked John from his reverie as the cab slowed to a stop.  At Sherlock’s pointed look, he opened the door and climbed out.  Alexander emerged from the opposite side and limped to the sidewalk.  Sherlock joined him moments later and scanned their surroundings with a grin.  

The last wisps of sunlight were fading into the west; a lamp flickered to life, casting its harsh, white light on the plaster of the council tower before them.  Dingy windows reflected the fluorescent glow, revealing frayed papers taped to the glass.  An indeterminate brown stain marred the front door.  John looked down, shifting from foot to foot.  Withered weeds listed between cracks in the pavement.   

“Well,” said Alexander.  “This is a dive, isn’t it?”

“Due for demolition soon,” said Sherlock, gesturing toward the front door.  A poster clung to the chipped wood, its lettering faded into smudges.  

John looked to Sherlock.  “Craig didn’t give us a flat number.”

Sherlock appeared not to hear him; his eyes were tracking across the tower windows.  Most of the windows were cracked and patched with paper or cardboard.  The unscathed remainders were covered in grime.  

John’s perusal skated over a row of windows near the top of the tower—and stopped.  Every  muscle and nerve in his body jumped to attention.  

“Sherlock,” he hissed, and grabbed the detective’s sleeve.  Sherlock jerked away as though burned.

And _there_ – John saw it.  One of the windows was a darker shade than the others because there was no glass, no reflective surface for the lamp’s cold light.  Pieces of cardboard were propped upright, giving the illusion of a window to brace them.  A triangular gap formed at the base of the cardboard, and through it, the muzzle of a rifle.

John’s cry was lost in the thunder of gunfire roaring through the dusk.  

 


	5. CHAPTER FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early post because I'll be busy during the holiday. I am also busy next Friday, so I may post the next chapter on Wednesday (11/29). This chapter is not Brit-picked - if you would like to Brit-pick later chapters, please contact me at zingiberis.tumblr.com. 
> 
> A warning: this chapter contains some violence, abuse, and sexual content. See the end of the chapter for more notes.

 

One moment, Sherlock was studying the windows on the Peckham council tower, collecting details at a rapid-fire pace.  The next moment, the explosive blast of a gun ricocheted through his eardrums.  

Bullets spattered the pavement at Sherlock’s feet as he rushed toward the council tower.  He took cover in the recess of the front door, squinting into the gloom beyond the lamplight.  His heart hammered in his ears as he strained for a scrap of sound, like a mouse taking shelter  as the owl loomed overhead, silent and merciless.   

From beyond the pool of lamplight, a skip loomed in the shadows.  There came pained moan, a hiss, and then silence.  Another round of gunfire exploded through the gathering dark.   

And then – a yelp.   _ John _ .  

Sherlock scarcely had time to cry out before the crack of gunfire ripped through his hearing.  He jiggled the doorknob, but it would not yield.  Hands shaking, he balled his scarf around one fist and drove it through the glass pane beside the door with a crunch. He curled his wrist, heedless of jagged shards, and unlocked the door from within.

Sherlock was inside and flying up the nearest stairwell before he had time to draw breath.  His feet barely seemed to touch the stairs as he vaulted through level after level.  Blood rushed through his ears, thumping in time with the sing-song syllables of a dead man’s voice.  

_ John Watson is definitely in danger… _

The clap of his footsteps was joined by the snap of a rifle being fired.  The gunshots blew away all other sound, and Sherlock was sprinting down a corridor, throwing a door open, and charging inside.  

The room was as bare as a monk’s cell.  A suitcase lay open beside a single bed.  Ratty blankets covered the thin mattress.  In the far corner, an ornate chair stood in stark contrast to the dingy sink and mirror at its side.  Greying paper curled off the wall in flakes.  

A wiry, fair-haired man whipped around, eyes widening as Sherlock hurtled toward him.  He had been sitting on a metal stool by the window, and barely had the time to clamber to his feet before the detective knocked him back with a vicious right hook.  The sniper fell with a howl, his rifle pinwheeling across the floor and out of reach.  

Sherlock strode forward, the buzz of his high sparking along his veins, threatening to consume him in a blaze of fury.  He gripped the sniper by the collar of his shirt and drew his right hand back for another blow.  

The click of a gun’s safety being released registered before its cold, black eye aligned with his.  Sherlock froze and flicked his gaze away from the barrel to the sniper’s face.  Realization struck like a slap.  Even in the dimness of the room, he recognized that thin face, those icy eyes. 

“Negretto Sylvius,” he said.

Sylvius sneered.  Blood poured from his nose, slicked his lips and chin.  Air whistled between his teeth and his chest heaved, but the handgun never wavered from Sherlock’s face.  

“I am lucky,” said Sylvius, voice thick.  Dutch – from The Hague, if Sherlock had to guess.  Sylvius licked his lips and flashed a red grin.  “You brought it right to me.”

“Get away from him.”

The quiet menace in those words sent a chill down Sherlock’s spine.  Sylvius’ knuckles whitened around the grip of the handgun and he turned his head fractionally to see the intruder.  John Watson stood in the darkened doorway, looking like a vengeful ghost carved from shadow.  The triangle of light from the cardboard slats glinted off the muzzle of the Sig Sauer, which was aimed directly at Sylvius.  

“Get away from him,” said John, “or I will kill you.”

The sniper scoffed.  “You think—”

His words were lost in a deafening shot.  The gun pointed at Sherlock shuddered and he flinched, expecting the bullet, expecting oblivion.  When his heart thudded again, again, again, he opened his eyes.  Sylvius’ head drooped to one side with a neat, crimson hole stamped into the temple.  Sherlock stumbled out of the way before the sniper’s corpse crumbled at his feet.  

Sherlock raised his head and looked to John.  “That,” he said, and stopped.  The danger had passed, but he felt as though he were plummeting from a long drop, not knowing if he would fly or break against the crags at the bottom.  With an effort, he forced out the words, “Good.  That, it was… good.”

John’s footsteps echoed in the stale air as he approached.  His expression was unreadable.  Anticipation curled in Sherlock’s belly, though for what, he couldn’t say.  

“Alexander,” he managed.

John’s lips thinned.  “He’s fine.  I got him to cover before coming after you.”

“Good,” Sherlock said.  The hollowing sensation of flight held him suspended.  Looking away, he clenched his hands at his sides.  “And you’re—you’re all right.”

“More or less.  Got a bit bruised when I startled Alexander by dragging him out of the way.  Bum leg or not, the man’s got a good arm.”

Sherlock made the mistake of looking at John then, searching for any sign of harm.  Adrenaline could fool an injured man into thinking he was perfectly well.  But aside from the huffing of an uphill sprint, John appeared uninjured.  

It was John’s stare that caught Sherlock, pinioning him so he was powerless to look away.   John looked back, chest rising and falling as his breathing quietened.  

“Sherlock.”  John’s voice was a husk.

“Good,” Sherlock repeated, taking a backwards step.  “That was… yes.”  He inhaled shakily.  “We had better get back to Alexander.”  

John’s expression shuttered.  Clearing his throat, he turned toward the door.  “Right.  Let’s get out of here.”

Sherlock’s senses buzzed as they descended the stairs, the lingering adrenaline buoying his slow descent from his high.  He had been steadily snorting cocaine for the last few days to stave off his black moods.  Lestrade’s case and Craig’s discovery had been pleasant surprises, but John’s appearance had doused his spirits like ice water.  He felt frigid, exposed.  

They said not a word as they emerged from the council tower.  Police lights smeared in the distant darkness, sirens wailing their approach.  Alexander hobbled out from the shelter of the skip.

“That was – mad,” he gasped.  “Are you two all right?  I barely had time to think before Dr. Watson pushed me out of the way.  Oh…  Sorry about, ah.  Hitting you.”

The smile John gave in reply was tight and didn’t reach his eyes.  “S’fine.”

“It’s only that,” said Alexander, “in the heat of the moment, you… react.  You were a soldier.  You understand.”

“I do,” said John curtly.  He looked past Alexander to the approaching police cars.  His hand twitched toward the gun, once again stowed in his jacket pocket.  “Sherlock.  I know you hate it, but a little help from the government just now would…”

“I told you not to bring it,” Sherlock muttered, already tapping away on his mobile phone. 

“And you’d be dead if not for it,” John hissed.  “Just call him.”

“Fine.”  Glowering at John – shoving aside memories of steady hands, rasping breaths – he hit the ‘Call’ button.  The moment the other line opened, Sherlock snapped, “Get Mycroft.  I’ve something quite interesting to tell him.”

Without pause, a woman said, “Very well.”  The line clicked, fell silent, and clicked again in seconds.  

“I see you’ve got yourself in a spot of trouble, brother mine.”   

“Ever so sorry, Mycroft, but you’ll have to exert yourself,” said Sherlock.  John cleared his throat and Sherlock glanced at the police cars.  The silhouettes of officers came into view, torch beams cutting through the dark.  He dropped his voice to a murmur.  “John’s just shot a man.”

“Goodness,” said Mycroft.  

“It was Negretto Sylvius.”  Sherlock shifted, presenting his back to John.  He lowered his voice and added, “Council tower in Peckham.  I was his target.”

Silence fell on the other side of the line.  Lestrade’s voice joined the officers’, calling Sherlock’s name.  

“Sherlock,” John said.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed, “we don’t have much time.”

There was a cough over the line.  Sherlock stiffened; Mycroft was alarmed.  When his brother’s voice returned, it was outwardly composed, but that did little to assure him.  

“Apologies,” said Mycroft.  “Of course I’ll handle it.  Give me a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute.”  Lestrade was close enough that the lamplight shone cold and bright on his haggard face.  He hissed, “Hurry,” and rang off.  

Lestrade was the first to reach them, having ran to get ahead of his colleagues.  His eyes darted around the scene, taking in the three of them.  John straightened, hands clasped behind his back.  Sherlock plastered a smile on his face and let the high carry him away from worry.  Lestrade was one of the brightest bulbs at the Met, but he was still quite dim.  

“You two,” Lestrade huffed.  “We had reports of gunshots.”  His gaze snapped to John.  “You know I trust you, but I hope to God you have a good excuse for being here.  I can’t cover for you every single time you—”

“Rest assured,” Sherlock interjected, “you don’t have to.”  

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.  Just as he began to protest, his mobile rang.  Eyes darting between Sherlock and John, he pulled out the phone.  “DI Lestrade.”

His face was stony as he listened to the other end of the line.  After several moments, he ended the call and scrubbed one hand over his brow with a sigh.  

“Well.”  Then, in a tone of disbelieving recitation, he said, “Apparently, someone very important thought it was in the best interests of national security to appropriate the CCTV footage of this area.  From the entire past week.  And I’ve been informed that you’re on a sensitive case for M15 and are not to be distracted.”  With a scoff, he said, “Your brother is thorough, isn’t he.”

“He’s been like that since we were children,” said Sherlock.  “A world-class quibbler.”

“Right.  I’m still taking statements.  I don’t care if black bags come for me in the night.”

“Naturally.”  Sherlock slipped his mobile phone into his pocket with a prim smile.  “Although John and I will tell you the exact same thing, which was how terribly dull this evening was.”

Lestrade put his hands over his eyes and leaned back with a wheeze.  Sherlock’s lip curled.  Honestly, everyone insisted that he was the drama queen.

 

-

 

The stairs creaked underfoot as Sherlock and John climbed up to 221B.  John had been silent after giving his statement, ignoring Sherlock’s dismissal and following him into the cab he hailed.  Sherlock had not given in, tossing barbed comments as casually as cigarette butts during the ride to Baker Street.  If John was bothered, he didn’t let it show – only stared ahead, resolute.   

Sherlock made a last-ditch effort when the cab stopped at Baker Street.  As he sorted through his wallet, he cast John a scornful look.  “Acted the hero.  You must be pleased with yourself.  But honestly, John, I think it’s time you get back to your wife and child.  You know, the people who actually  _ need _ your help.”  He shoved the money into the tray between the driver and passenger seats.  “Bit not good, you know.  Abandoning your little girl because you’re bored.”

John’s hand clenched into a fist at his side.  He threw the door open, stepped out, and slammed it in Sherlock’s face.  He waited without a word as Sherlock climbed out of the cab and went to unbolt the door of 221.  His last chance to drive John away vanished as he stepped inside and climbed the stairs.    

The seventeenth step creaked.  Sherlock rounded on John.

“Go home,” he said.  “Give Mary my love.”

“Sherlock.”  John’s voice was quiet but commanding.  “Open the door.”

Sherlock hesitated, but the force of John’s will was too powerful to ignore.  He was grateful that his hand didn’t tremble as he unlocked the door and turned the knob.  

John stepped inside flipped the light switch, yanking back the veil of darkness in an instant. His gaze roamed over the room, taking in charred spoons and cups, discarded syringes, empty bottles of saline, crumpled filter cases.  A burn mark on the coffee table from when Sherlock had lost track of time and dropped a spoon when it grew too hot.  A smear of powder on his armchair.  

John turned to face Sherlock.  He didn’t belong in this picture – didn’t belong in the rubble of Sherlock’s blasted life.

“Leave,” said Sherlock.  “John, just—just go—”

John closed the distance between them in three long strides and gripped Sherlock by the shoulders, startling him into silence.  His face moved – convulsed, painfully.  

“So this,” said John, “this is what you’ve been.  Been doing.”  He shook his head.  “Jesus—fuck, Sherlock, you could have talked to me.  I could have.  I can help you!”

Anger rose in Sherlock’s chest, startling him with its heat.  He leaned into the doctor’s space with a sneer.  

“You?” said Sherlock scornfully.  “What do you think you could do, John?  Save me from myself?”  He laughed.  “Don’t you get tired of trying to save everyone?”

“I know you don’t mean that,” John said. “I know you’re trying to drive me off.  I just don’t know why.”

Sherlock snorted.  “You’re funny.  John, hasn’t it occurred to you that I don’t need to drive you off?  You left.  All on your own.”

“You’re bitter because I have a child?”

“Not bitter,” said Sherlock.  “Bored.  You can pick one or the other, but you can’t have both.  Which will it be?  The savior complex or the dutiful father?  The clichés suit you, I admit.”  He laughed.  John’s eyes were as hard as steel.  “But they do get old after a while.  Especially when one is so clearly hypocritical.”

“What are you talking about.”  A growl, not a question.

“You don’t care,” said Sherlock, raising his hands to encompass himself, the sitting room, 221B in its entirety.  “You don’t want to be here – you want to be at your quaint little house in Chiswick with Mary and Rosie.  You want to go back to your ordinary life, but you feel duty-bound to look after the junkie.  Do I have the right of it?”  He drew closer, challenging.  John glared back.  “Or are you just looking for a hit?  An adrenaline rush?  Quick nip of the good stuff to tide you over in the dull times?”

“Shut up,” John growled.  

“You can’t have everything, John.  You can’t run back and forth between me and your family because you feel guilty.”

“That isn’t it at all!” John snapped.  “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I can’t—I can’t watch you kill yourself again!  I’ve seen you die twice, do you realize that?  I can’t.”

“No one,” Sherlock said, “is making you watch.  You can leave me in peace and have a clean conscience about it.”  Then, in a buzzing burst of inspiration:  the final blow.  A fact that had tormented him for years, but would now work to his advantage.  

Sherlock leaned in another increment, setting a scant few inches between their faces.  He lowered his voice to a rumble.  “I do not want you.  You can’t have me.”

John flinched as if he’d been struck.  Sherlock waited, expecting disgust, denial.  Expecting “I’m not gay!”  

Instead – as always – John Watson surprised Sherlock.  

Deductions flicked through Sherlock’s mind before he could stop himself.  John’s pupils expanded, crowding his irises into blue slivers.  His skin flushed.  His mouth fell open on a breath, tongue darting out to wet his lips.   

In the wonderment of a dream, Sherlock reached for John’s wrist.  The doctor did not shake him off, though he was trembling all over.  Sherlock steadied his arm and waited as the pulse thrummed beneath his thumb and middle finger.   

John’s pulse was racing.

Sherlock felt his every pretense stripped away, exposing the underbelly of base need.  He needed no mirror to know what was stamped across his features, written as clearly as a signpost.  

Sherlock wanted.  The blue eyes, the steady hands, the darting tongue.  He burned with the wanting.

He leaned forward, unsure of what he would do, needing to act.  John bit his lip and said, softly:  “Sherlock.”

Then his eyes flashed wide and his weight shifted, and his closed fist was flying toward Sherlock.  The blow caught him under the eye, knocking his head against the wall in a blaze of pain.  Sherlock sank to his knees and touched his face with a shaking hand, too stunned to make a sound.  

“You,” John rasped, “stay away from me.  And stay the hell away from Rosie.”

He looked down at his fist, curling and uncurling his fingers.  His face was as pale as a death mask.  Lurching for the door, he threw it open and stomped down the stairs.  The front door to the flat opened, slammed shut – then nothing. 

Blinking, Sherlock touched the spot under his eye.  Feather-light as his fingers were, he drew them away with a hiss as pain flared.  The bruise would be vivid.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and prodded the spot again.  His skin burned to the touch.  

 

-

 

Mycroft arrived the following morning.  Although he was as composed as ever, Sherlock noted the creases in his suit vest and the imprints of a keyboard on his wrists with disquiet.  Mycroft’s distress was most disturbing when Sherlock wasn’t the cause of it.

Forgoing his usual disgusted sweep of the flat, Mycroft honed in on Sherlock’s swollen cheek.  Starved without oxygen, the bruise had matured into a lurid, blue-violet mark roughly the size of John’s fist.  Sherlock wore it like an emblem.  

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.  

“Don’t mock me,” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft glided across the room and settled into John’s armchair with all the pomp of a roosting turkey.  Sherlock glowered at him, but his brother made no move to vacate the seat.  He braced elbows on knees and narrowed his eyes.

“I could make him regret it,” he murmured.

“No.”

“Sherlock…”

“I goaded him,” Sherlock said.  “I wanted him to do it.”

“Why ever would you…”  Mycroft trailed off, eyelids lowering as understanding dawned.  “Ah.  Of course.”

“Piss off,” Sherlock grumbled.  Curled in his chair, he resisted the urge and hide his face against the upholstery.  Mycroft’s perception rankled him.  It was his lot as the stupid Holmes child.

“Gladly,” Mycroft said.  He leaned back and tapped idly against the armrests.  “I’ve something more pertinent to discuss.  Negretto Sylvius.”

Sherlock was eager to change the subject.  “I take it your new status as Moriarty isn’t quite as hush-hush as you’d thought.  The sniper targeted me, after all.”

“So it would seem.”

“That’s not all.  Sylvius seemed to think I had something of value.  He said I brought it right to him.  What was he after?”

“Yet another mystery,” Mycroft said.  “I’ve been careful not to hang my success on a physical item.”  He picked an imaginary speck off his trouser leg, lip curled.  “I find myself… stumped.  I took measures to hide my identity from the organization.  Sound measures.  No one could have discovered me.”

Sherlock shrugged and tried to brush aside his anxiety.  “Everyone gets careless.”

“I don’t,” said Mycroft, and Sherlock knew it to be true.  Lowering his head, he pressed the tips of his fingers together.  “I was remiss with Sylvius.  I missed a weed in my own garden.  But…”  His hands twitched, cinched into a circle as if curling around a throat.  “I’ve uprooted him, if belatedly.”

“What about Winter?”

“As elusive as ever.  Every time I close in on him, he slips out of my grasp.  We do believe he’s moved, though.  He was seen in Brussels, but gone before we could secure him.”

“I pity the Belgians,” said Sherlock.  “You searched the city?”

“With a fine-toothed comb,” Mycroft sighed.  “And I’ve nothing to show for it.  Other than the assurance that I was correct in one thing, at least.  Winter has already found a bolt-hole in England.”

“I didn’t go looking for Sylvius – he found me.  I can’t help it if Winter does the same.”

“Which brings us to another topic,” Mycroft said.  “Your client, Alexander Grant.  Why was it that his case led you right into Sylvius’ crosshairs?”

A shiver juddered through Sherlock’s frame.  Acutely self-conscious, he averted his gaze and rose to his feet.  He picked up a syringe-filled mug from the sitting room table and padded into the kitchen.  The tiles were cool against his bare feet as he emptied the mug in the bin.  

“Sherlock.”

“Clearly,” said Sherlock, “Sylvius was involved in the theft of Alexander’s deceased daughter’s money.  A bit less subtle than I prefer, but—well, what is it they say?  ‘You can’t have it all.’  I won’t even have to leave the flat.  I can solve it from here and go back to being bored.”

“Indeed.”  Sherlock could only see his brother in profile, but Mycroft’s slow perusal of the flat would have been obvious to a blind man.  “Mrs. Hudson is resigned to your… deviancy, then.”

“Not quite,” said Sherlock.  He held the bin under the edge of the kitchen table and swept a cluster of garbage into its waiting mouth.  “She occasionally threatens to cuff me to the radiator until the drugs are out of my system, but that’s all bluster.”

“She may have the right of it.”

“You two should start a club,” Sherlock sneered.  “As I’ve said multiple times, Mummy, I know what I’m doing.  My usage is tightly controlled.”

“That nonsense may satisfy the doctor,” Mycroft said, skirting past John’s name like he would scum on the sidewalk, “but I know your history better than he does.  You will recall that I was there.”

“Piss.  Off.”

“I will be speaking to Mr. Wiggins,” Mycroft said.  

“Do whatever you like,” Sherlock fired back.  “I have other contacts, and you’ve got bigger priorities than chasing down drug dealers.”  Seeing Mycroft’s frown, he smiled.  “Even better?  They’ve quite a mobile group.  Lots of legwork for you.”

“You have a point.  Perhaps I should focus on Sylvius’ remaining cohorts first – which brings me back to Mr. Grant.  I will certainly be having a long talk with him.”

Sherlock’s hand, reaching for a musty glass, froze.  The lapse was brief, but he knew his brother noticed it – and he knew his brother knew he knew.  Dropping the pretense of cleaning, he strode over to his armchair and fell into it with a muffled thump.  He lounged back and feigned disinterest.

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p.’  

“It wasn’t a question, brother mine.”

“This is the first interesting case I’ve had in months,” Sherlock said.  “I don’t want you ruining it by sticking your big nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“This is not up for debate,” Mycroft said.  “Clearly Mr. Grant has not told you his entire story, if not outright lied about it.  Once I’ve learned the extent of his involvement with Negretto Sylvius and the previous Moriarty’s organization, I will decide whether or not to uproot him, too.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, abandoning the charade of composure.  Begging was degrading, but going without a good case right now would be horrendously boring.  

Mycroft studied Sherlock for a moment in silence.  Then, measuredly, he said, “You put far too much faith in Dr. Watson, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat bolt upright.  “He has nothing to do with this!”

“He does.”

“I know people aren’t your area,” Sherlock spat, “but Alexander Grant and John Watson are not the same man.  The fact that they’re both wounded ex-soldiers doesn’t mean—doesn’t mean I have some kind of fancy—”

“Not a fancy,” Mycroft said.  “A voluntary blind spot.”  His pale hands came together, fingers interlacing with the strain forbidden from voice and face.  “I will only let your self-destruction go so far, Sherlock.  Once I’ve assumed complete power as the new Moriarty and brought my… subordinates, shall we say, to heel, I will deal with your problems.”

“Maybe you aren’t as powerful as you think.”

Mycroft smiled tightly.  “Our little chats may lead you to think otherwise, but I am a busy man.”

“I researched Alexander,” Sherlock said.  “There was nothing suspicious about him.”

“I researched Negretto Sylvius,” Mycroft returned, “and failed to predict when and where he would be when he returned to London.  Winter has continued to evade me, despite extensive research.”  Cocking his head to one side, he said, with feigned curiosity, “Between the two of us, who you think is better informed?”

Sherlock said nothing.  Dropping his head, he glared down at his balled fists.  

“It’s decided, then,” said Mycroft.  “I will speak with Mr. Grant about his involvement with Sylvius.  If he is miraculously proved innocent, I will allow you to continue working his case.  If I confirm that he was involved in the attempt on your life… well.  I hope you take my meaning.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth.  “I see.”

“I thought you might.” 

“What about Mary?” Sherlock asked.  “You said you would leave her be, so naturally I assume you set up surveillance at the Chiswick house.”

Mycroft didn’t have the courtesy to sham embarrassment, but his smile withered.  “Of course.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”  Mycroft stood, smoothing out nonexistent creases in his suit jacket.  “I hope you’re pleased to hear it.”

“I am.”

With a sniff, Mycroft picked up his cane and headed toward the front door.  He paused on the threshold and turned with the practiced ease of a man who has delivered devastating news many times.

“Since you’re so interested in the surveillance,” he said, “I thought it might interest you to know what Dr. Watson did yesterday evening.  He arrived home near midnight – a few hours after visiting with you.”  Again, his eyes skated over the violet canvas of Sherlock’s cheek.  “He was well on his way to intoxicated when he arrived, and was exhaustive in finishing the job before he retired.  He looked quite ill at ease by the time he took himself to bed.”  He smiled benignly at Sherlock’s expression. “He may have hit you, but it appears he didn’t leave entirely unaffected.  Good day.”

The door snicked shut, and Mycroft was clumping down the stairs long before Sherlock mustered his wits.  With a muttered oath, he whirled around and stormed into the kitchen.  He found another stray mug and hurled it against the tiled wall, where it shattered into a hundred pieces.  

 

-

 

An indeterminate time later – Sherlock thought possibly the next day, but the morphine fogged his mental clock – someone rang at the door to 221.  Listing on the sofa, Sherlock paid the visitor no mind until Mrs. Hudson’s weepy shrilling climbed the stairs.

“Oh, Molly, it’s only that I’m at the end of my rope!  Of course, I know what he’s getting up to, but what can I do about it?  Nothing!  Last time I tried poking around, he was shooting up the wall!  I might’ve been caught in the crossfire if I hadn’t moved, quick-like.  I think I strained my hip doing it, too…”

Molly’s voice was subdued, but Sherlock had crept to the door of 221B and was listening intently.  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hudson.  I… well, honestly, I don’t have much space, but I could stay with a friend for a few days if you’d like to use my flat.  Though, um, if you’re allergic to cat hair…”

“You’re a dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, “but no, I think I’ll stay put.  If I wasn’t around, I don’t like to think of what he’d get up to.”

“Does John come around?  You know, to check up on him?”

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson began, making the single syllable wobble, “he was here just the other day, and I thought, thank God, they’re finally going to talk.  They went upstairs and closed the door, but there was a fair bit of shouting, you wouldn’t believe.  I could hear it all the way down in my kitchen.  John left after a little, and I thought they had come to an agreement, or maybe he just needed some air.  He would do that, you know, back when he lived here.  When Sherlock got to be too much…”

“Yes,” said Molly.  “And then…?”

“Sh-Sherlock’s face,” Mrs. Hudson sniffled.  “Oh, but it’s black and blue all over.  My boys…”

Sherlock threw open the door then, certain he would throw up if Mrs. Hudson got into a proper cry.  “You can come up and speak to me instead of lurking around corners,” he challenged.  A few seconds passed before Molly appeared at the bottom of the stairwell, scowling up at him.  Aside from the garish, avocado-spotted cardigan, she was the picture of solemnity.  

“I can say what I have to right here,” she replied.  

“Oh, I see,” Sherlock said.  “You just wanted a little gossip with Mrs. Hudson.  Don’t mind me.”

“I did want to talk to you,” Molly said.  She bit her lip and added in a tremulous tone, “I… I don’t want you coming ‘round Bart’s anymore.”

Sherlock blinked.  “Since when do you tell me where I can and can’t go?”

“Since Mike promoted me,” Molly said, standing up straighter.  “I’m Senior Pathologist now, Sherlock.  I’m in charge of the lab and mortuary.”

“How lovely for you.”  

“Which means,” Molly said, “that I say who’s allowed in and who isn’t.  You’re in the latter group.  I know you’ve been nicking things.  I’m done letting you.”

“And you’re all right with me getting my supplies from less reputable sources?” Sherlock shot back.  “Or improvising?  A cotton ball is a far cry from a proper filter.”

Molly winced, but set her jaw.  “I’ll not help you kill yourself.”

“Oh, spare me the melodrama.  You don’t mean this.”

“I do.”  From his vantage point, Sherlock couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw her blink hard.  “I thought… I thought you’d see that I’d been promoted.  But you’re pretty far gone.”

Humiliation jabbed at Sherlock.  He cast about for clues, but his mind dropped each one as soon as he had it, unable to build a cohesive whole with jumbled pieces.  Settling for what he knew, he said, “Congratulations, by the way.  Your little affair with Lestrade seems to be going well.  You’ve put on four pounds.”

Molly glared up at him.  “Don’t come by the lab.  I’m updating the security system, reassigning ID cards.  It’s a nightmare for everyone involved, but it’ll keep you out.”

“We’ll see,” said Sherlock.

Molly turned and walked out of the stairwell.  Sherlock heard her bid Mrs. Hudson farewell.  “And again, um, if you need it, you can have my flat for a few days.  I’m not bothered.”

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Hudson sighed.  “You’re an angel.”

The front door snapped shut moments later, and Molly was gone.  Sherlock stood on the landing of 221B for a long while.  The cloud of morphine pressed upon him like a soft embrace, smothering worry.  He slunk back into his flat and closed the door, sealing off the rest of the world.

 

-

 

“I’m not like that,” John said.  “You know I’m not like that.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he stared, mute with shock.  When understanding dawned, he nearly laughed at his own foolishness.  Morphine made him slow on the uptake, but cocaine was quicker, nimbler.  It was plain at a glance that this John was not real.  His hair was a shade longer than it had been the other day, and his shooting jacket lacked the well-worn creases Sherlock had seen form over the years.  

Sherlock was high enough to humor himself.  “Like what?”

“You know.  Not gay.  Not attracted to men.  To  _ you _ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock averted his gaze, half-hoping the figment of John would vanish if ignored.  “For God’s sake, leave me alone.  I know.”

“That’s what all the data suggests, isn’t it?” said John.  His voice was very near; when Sherlock looked back, he found the phantom standing directly before him, eyes intense.  Heat prickled in his stomach.  

“All the previous data, yes,” he said stiffly.  

“Implying you’ve got something new.”

“Your pupils dilated,” Sherlock managed, “your skin flushed, your pulse—”

“Sherlock.”  John’s voice was firm, as if he was commanding an unruly officer.  The prickle grew into a spark, spreading warmth through Sherlock’s veins.  “You have to accept it – I’m not attracted to you.  I’m married.  I have a wife.  I love her, I’m attracted to her, I have sex with  _ her _ .  You understand?”

“I know what I saw,” Sherlock said, floundering.  “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable—”

“I could never.”  The words shattered Sherlock’s defense like a hammer splitting bone.  “Not with you.  Christ, Sherlock, you’ve made my life a misery.  So many times.  How could I ever?”  He laughed.  “No.  I’m not like that.”

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.  “You can leave if you’re so disgusted.  I won’t keep you.”  Pitiful, to be so reduced by a figment of his imagination.  But the real John had an uncanny way of slipping past his defenses; it came as no surprise that this incarnation could do the same.  

“I’m not like that,” John said again.  His gaze was fixed but remote, like Sherlock was a specimen on a slide.  “But I am curious.”

Sherlock tensed as John knelt before him, close enough to touch.  The hair, Sherlock realized – just long enough to wind his fingers into and tug.  The air stalled in his lungs as John leaned forward, resting his hands gingerly on Sherlock’s knees.  No, no, not John’s hands.  Sherlock’s.  But the fantasy was swiftly dragging him into its current.  

“You’re incredible,” John murmured.  A frisson of heat ran down Sherlock’s spine.  “Amazing.  You know that, don’t you?  You’re so… singular.  You make people stop and stare.  Of course I would be curious.”

“John,” Sherlock said.

John’s hands moved up Sherlock’s knees, silently commanding them to part.  Sherlock obeyed.  The high smoldered through his veins, kindling his arousal.  He watched, dazed, as John’s deft fingers explored his inner thighs.  Splaying the fingers of each hand, his thumbs rubbed circles along straining muscles.  

_ Gracilis _ , Sherlock thought, mouth dry.  Slender.

“Sometimes,” John said quietly, “I wonder if you’re even capable of it.  Of this.”  One thumb nudged the swell of Sherlock’s prick, already tenting the thin fabric of his sweatpants.  Sherlock bit his lip.  “I wonder if you’re really the machine you say you are, or if you have... impulses.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “please.”

John’s fingers were at Sherlock’s waistband in an instant, dragging it down.  The air of the flat was warm, but Sherlock shivered as stomach, hipbones, and cock were exposed.  Unconfined by fabric, his cock stood ruddy and thick against his belly.  John used one hand to lift Sherlock’s shirt until his thumb grazed a nipple.  Sherlock squirmed, panting.

“Sensitive,” John said.

“Nngh.”  Sherlock’s hips twitched forward, only to still as John took him in a firm grasp.  As one hand rolled his nipple, the hem of his t-shirt taut at the wrist, John’s other hand moved over the length of Sherlock’s prick.  Up, down, building speed, tighter on the upstroke, thumb darting out to rub the head and smear precome down the shaft.  Each stroke punched the air from Sherlock’s lungs.   

John timed one stroke with a sharp tug on Sherlock’s nipple, making him yelp.  His nerve endings were overloading on sensation, and he was an exposed wire fit to burst.  And all at once, the sensation in his chest was overwhelmed by tension in his groin, coiling low and tight.

“I’m,” he gasped.

“I know.”  John said.  Then, in a different tone – one rough, rasping, needing – he said, “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.  Come on, love.”

Sherlock came with a cry, his whole body shaking as John stroked him through the surge.  His fingers – no, John’s fingers – softened and slowed, holding him with something like tenderness.  Drawing back from Sherlock’s chest, John cupped the side of his face, expression remote.  Sherlock grimaced, and John released him.  

“Curiosity,” Sherlock said, once he could find his voice.  

John nodded.  “Curiosity.” 

“You… shammed that last bit. ‘Love.’”

“You’re a skilled liar, even to yourself.”  Silence for a beat, and then, “You said I couldn’t have you.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.  “Yes.”

“Sherlock,” said John, “I don’t want you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes – but John was gone, vanished back into the recesses of his mind.  His hands were a mess; the smell of sex lingered in the air.  The dwindling high was powerless against a rush of self-loathing as he kicked off his sweatpants and stumbled into the loo, legs trembling.  

After cleaning and dressing himself, Sherlock went to his secret stash, rifled through the contents, and pulled out a small packet.  He wiped the surface of the sitting room table clean and tapped the contents of the packet into a neat pile.  He hadn’t planned on another binge, but there was no time like the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should go without saying, but this is a work of fiction and the things characters do should not be taken as a blueprint for real-life interactions. If your significant other (or, frankly, anybody) hits you, you should report them to the proper authorities and get to work cutting this person out of your life. 
> 
> Given Mofftiss' treatment of John in S4, I know some people will take serious offense at how John acted in this chapter, but I implore you to stick with me if you are able. I tried to resolve this in a way that, while problematic, is believable and keeps with the major theme of this fan fiction. 
> 
> If you've read this far and can't go on, I understand. If you choose to keep reading, I will make efforts to include TWs at the beginning of each chapter. Thank you.


	6. CHAPTER FIVE

 

The coffeehouse in Belgravia was a far cry from discreet.  As the cabbie pulled over, Mary consulted her phone for the fourth time since beginning the trip.  An unnamed number flashed on the screen with a single text:   _114 Ebury Street, Belgravia_.  

“We’re ‘ere, miss,” the cabbie grunted.

Mary paid the fare, flashed a sweet smile, and slipped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk.  She skimmed into the tide of people like a fish joining its school – visible for an instant, vanished into the throng in another.  

She found him in an instant.  Sitting brazenly at a table outside the coffeehouse, James Winter saluted her with two fingers and grinned.  Mary smiled back, feeling naked under the glare of street cameras.  She fantasized about flaying him as she took his hand.  

“James,” she said by way of greeting.

Winter winked roguishly.  With dark hair, a straight nose, and a square jaw, he could be considered quite handsome.  Mary knew his true nature too well to be fooled.  

“I believe I said ‘discreet,’” she said.

“Sorry, Rose,” said Winter.  “But I heard this place had killer cigars, so I had to try it out.”

“I go by ‘Mary’ now,” said Mary.  She pulled out the chair opposite of Winter, legs scraping the pavement, and sat.  “There are cameras everywhere.  You’ve probably ruined us before we had a chance to begin.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” said Winter.  “Don’t worry.  I’ve got every camera on the street right here.”

He lifted his mobile phone, displaying a list of numbers.  Tapping the topmost number, he opened a page complete with the location coordinates, security clearance, and a little blurred square – the front view of the coffeehouse in miniature.  

“And here I thought the government had that market squared away,” said Mary.

Winter shrugged.  “Technology.  Incredible stuff, really.”

“I doubt you can get this toy at the app store,” she mused.  

“Nah.  Made it myself.”

“And you haven’t been found in a month,” Mary marveled. “That is… impressive.”

“The highest of compliments, coming from you,” said Winter, touching one hand to his chest in a bow.  “The big man in the government is good, I’ll give him that.  But he doesn’t get out much.  Doesn’t like getting his hands dirty.  Big mistake – he’s relying only on his eyes,” gesturing to the ID numbers on his mobile phone, “and doesn’t realize he’s blind.”

“And you’re free to roam around,” Mary said.  “Been seeing the sights, then?  Big Ben, the London Eye?”

Winter shook his head.  “My tastes a bit more eclectic than that.  Cute kid, by the way.”

Mary froze in the act of picking up a menu.  Then, tilting her head, she fixed Winter with a cold stare.  “You tapped the cameras outside my house.”

Winter smirked.  “Just a little peek now and then.  Checking in, you know.”

“You forget yourself,” said Mary.  

Winter raised his hands in mock surrender.  “I was only looking on account of your husband.  D’you really think it’s a good idea, keeping Sherlock Holmes’ pet around?  Getting _married_ to it?”

Mary smiled.  “Of course I do.”  The smile withered.  “But I don’t want you spying on my child.  I don’t even want you _mentioning_ her.  Not a word, understand?”

“Rose,” Winter said, “you—”

“My name,” she said, “is _Mary._  And I swear to God, James Winter, if you breathe another word about my child, I’ll put a bullet in you.  Don’t think I won’t.  You might be able to hide from Mycroft Holmes, but you can’t hide from us both.”  She flicked her gaze up from the menu, studying him.  “And no more surveillance on my house.  I know you like that sort of thing, but I won’t be your entertainment.”

Winter forced a tight smile.  “Selling me out to Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t do you any good.  You need me.”

Closing the menu and setting it aside, Mary shook her head.  “I’ve killed one Holmes and kept his loyalty.  Even more impressive?  I kept my husband’s.  Do you really think I can’t do this alone?”

Winter’s smile sharpened, making him resemble a feral creature.  For moment, Mary wondered if he was going to attack her in broad daylight on a crowded street.  Then the smile softened.

“You always had a knack for it,” he said, sitting back.  “Fooling poor bastards into trusting you.”

Mary’s thoughts turned to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.  One of those men trusted her, and it wasn’t the one who had shared her bed for the past two months. “Shared” was a generous term for the sparse, stilted words John traded with her day after day.  It was a generous term for the tension that filled any room they happened to occupy – and not the good kind, either.   

“It’s my greatest skill,” she chuckled.  

“What happened to the last one?”

“Dunno.  I haven’t been keeping tabs on him.”

Winter picked up the menu with an offhand manner.  “Speaking of keeping tabs on people, I followed the Sylvius case until the police were done with him.  Nothing to report.  It was all very neat and tidy.”

Mary rolled her eyes.  “That’s Mycroft Holmes for you.”

“It was neat and tidy on my end, too,” Winter replied.  “No leads, nothing that could be traced back to us.”

“Good riddance,” Mary muttered.  “I knew Sylvius would rat me out the moment he got the chance.  Besides, he was too fond of the needle.”

“He and that Holmes guy would’ve gotten along swimmingly, then,” Winter scoffed.  “All he does nowadays is shoot up.  It’s a wonder he hasn’t managed to kill himself.”

“You’ve been watching Baker Street, too?”

“’Course.  A little sturdier security to hack, but not impossible.”  Winter snorted.  “It’s pathetic.  Hasn’t left the flat in days now.  Starting to wonder if he’d notice if I put down his landlady, he’s so cloistered up in there.  Solving a few little cases remotely, but mostly he’s just letting himself waste away.”

“You enjoy watching him, then,” Mary surmised.

Winter pursed his lips.  “It’d be more fun if I could chase him.  As it is, I’m not into queers.”

Mary blinked.  She’d known as much about Sherlock for some time, but Winter’s intuition surprised her.  A rabid dog doesn’t ponder the person it bites.  “Oh?”

“Yeah.”  Winter shuddered.  “Shouldn’t have messed with the microphones.  Although…”  He glanced at Mary with a wan smile.  “You might like to know who he’s moaning about.”

“I already do,” said Mary.  “Sherlock could be a problem.  Sure, he’s slowly killing himself, but he’s too clever by far to be dismissed.  Loyal to me or not, we can’t let our guard down around him.”

“Pity Sylvius didn’t manage to kill him,” Winter sighed.  

“Well,” Mary said, “maybe you can.”  Winter’s eyes flashed with glee; quickly, she added, “Not just yet.  After we’ve dealt with our biggest priority.   _And_ after we’ve secured an escape route.”  

Winter lapsed into despondency.  “You don’t seem to hate the guy.”

“He’s all right,” said Mary, dropping her gaze to the tabletop.  “He’s helped me out of a few tight places.  Magnussen, especially.  I couldn’t have asked for a better conclusion to that.”

“But…?”

Mary propped her elbow on the tabletop and rested her chin on the heel of her hand.  “He’s so… blind.  But if he somehow saw the truth, really _saw_ it?  His loyalty would be gone like that.”  She snapped her fingers.  “Nothing he does is done for me.  Not really.  And if I’m going to get where I want to go, I’m going to lose him eventually.  The real question is _when._ ”

“And you’re going…”

“To the top.”

 

-

 

“Rosie,” John said, catching a wayward foot, “hold still.  Come on, darling, you know how this goes.”

Rosie babbled as her father wrestled the remaining leg into place and bound up the nappy with practiced ease.  With a sigh, John leaned back from the changing table and surveyed his work.  The newly-diapered baby stared back at him, blinked, and rolled her head back to study the ceiling.  She cooed and raised one hand, fingers grasping.  

“You aren’t big enough to reach that,” said John.  He scooped her up, cradling her against his shoulder.  “And I suspect you never will be.  Short genes, that’s your lot.  Sorry about that.”

John carried her around the room, reluctant to set her down just yet.  When he had first laid eyes on his daughter, he had thought it impossible to love anything more – but he cherished Rosie more every day, every minute.  It was terrifying to love something so small and frail so completely.  It was terrifying to think that she was an entire _person_ , someone who would grow into a life all their own.  She could become brilliant and beautiful, and broken in the space of a heartbeat.

An image rose to his mind’s eye; it had haunted him for the past month, stealing into his dreams like a vengeful specter.  A pale, angular face flushed with anger, with – no.  Green-grey eyes shining under lowering lids.  The jolt of shock an instant before the blow.  

Resting Rosie’s weight in one arm, John rubbed his brow with one hand.  He wanted a drink badly, but he wasn’t fool enough to think he could mind the baby with anything less than his full faculties at hand.  

Distantly, he heard the front door swing open and shut.  “Wow, it’s quiet for once.  Hope I’m not interrupting an unscheduled nap.  John?”

John hesitated.  “In here.”

Moments later, Mary appeared in the doorway.  Her cheeks were pink with the chill of March and her hair was tousled from the wind.  “Hello, lovey,” she cooed, offering her finger to Rosie.  The baby seized it with a gurgle.  Glancing at John, Mary said, “Sorry.  I didn’t think Helen would keep me so long.”

“It’s fine,” said John.  If he was honest with himself, he didn’t mind having Rosie to himself.  “We were just getting cleaned up, weren’t we?”

“Done with the two o’clock one, eh?” Mary chuckled.  

“Yeah.  How was the clinic?”

“Hmm?”

“The clinic.”  He watched Mary’s face carefully, but her placid expression did not so much as twitch.  “The shift…?”

Mary grinned guiltily.  “Oh, yeah.  That.  Um, well, I was so completely fagged out, you know?  I was mostly working from muscle memory.”  

“Right.”  Even to his own ears, John sounded suspicious.  He turned toward Rosie’s cot to hide his face from Mary.  Rosie blinked blearily as she settled into a doze.  “Yeah, I’m the same lately.”

Silence fell for a few seconds; then, in an entirely different tone, Mary said, “You know, I was thinking we could do something fun.  Exercise some different muscles.”

Startled, John turned to face her.  Mary slipped forward, eyes sparkling.  “I know it’s been a while, and it’s good that we’ve been careful, but I really do feel back in shape.”  She smirked.  “I know, I know – I’m rusty in the romance department.  But I figure when we’ve got an hour on the outside,” she flicked her eyes down to the cot, “ _maybe_ thirty minutes, it’s best to be direct.  Yeah?”

A cold, stony weight of unease settled in John’s gut.   “Oh.”

Mary slid her arms around him and slowly pressed close, transporting John back to the days of their early dating.  Back at the beginning, John had scarcely been able to see through the fog of grief that engulfed him.  The raw wound of Sherlock’s death had closed, but John had felt as if something vital had been cut out in the process.  Healed but not whole, he had drifted through the motions, spinning into a listless, downward spiral.  He drank more and socialized less.  He fantasized about the kick of the Sig in his hand, the explosive snap of a bullet.

Mary had changed all that.  With easy smiles and infinite patience, she weathered John’s dark moods.  Her light had pierced the fog, giving John a glimpse of the sun.  A fainter, cooler sun, certainly, but a steady one.  Not a light that would burn itself out with sheer brilliance.  

As his arms slowly encircled Mary’s waist, John remembered how his life had become livable again – how socializing became tolerable, sex became fun, the very air became breathable.  Mary had given him that.  He owed her.

Mary’s hands skated up the buttons of John’s shirt as she slowly walked backward, drawing him out of Rosie’s room.  She smiled, head cocked to one side – and John’s memories rose up a second time.  

He was standing in the sitting room at Baker Street.  Sherlock lay pale and drawn in his armchair, the tiny seam along his vena cava fraying as he defended his would-be murderer.  Mary stood between them.  Eyes fixed on John, she cocked her head – the slow, swaying motion of a reptile.  

John tensed.  Mary’s hands stilled.  She pulled back with a frown.  

“Is everything okay?” she asked.  

“It’s just,” John found himself saying, mind sprinting to catch up with his mouth, “Christ, I’m sorry.  I’m exhausted.  Can barely keep myself upright.”

Silence hung between them.  With a pitying smile, Mary said, “It’s fine.  I completely understand.”

“I’m sorry, but you know how it is…”

“Do I,” Mary sighed.  She released John’s shirt collar, smoothing her fingers over the exposed skin of his throat.  “Some other time, yeah?  When we’re both a little less exhausted.  I wouldn’t want us to get too out of practice.”  

“Right,” said John.  Mary’s brow knitted, but she only pressed her mouth softly to his.  John felt their lips touch on a distant level, as if he was an automaton sheathed in human skin.  As he stepped around her to retreat to the bedroom, he glimpsed Rosie’s cot and faltered.  “She…”

“Don’t worry,” said Mary.  “I’ve got her.”

Fear surged, sending John’s heart racing.  Sheer willpower compelled him to nod, offer a brittle smile, and walk out of the room.  

A few paces down the hallway, the fear caught him in its grip.  John strode back toward Rosie’s room on silent feet.  Hearing Mary’s voice, low and crooning, he stopped just beyond the door.  

“Oh, lovey,” Mary murmured.  “Oh, my sweet one.  There’s a girl.”  Rosie cooed sleepily and Mary chuckled.  “It’s just you and me right now.”  A hush followed.  “You and I on our own.  Just like before.”

And then John’s feet were carrying him down the hall, gaining speed with every step until he was racing up the stairs.  Once in the bedroom, he closed the door and clambered into bed.  His breath came in gasps as he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.  Panic threatened to choke him.

Mary Morstan – the Mary of the past, of sweetness and patience and light – did not exist.  She was an illusion.  She had been created to lure John into—what?  Complacency, marriage?  What would a former assassin want with _him_?

John could not fathom her reasons, but he knew one thing:  the true Mary was the Mary he had seen that night at Baker Street – a reptilian creature, poised to strike.  She was the cold, dead eyes and the sharp teeth.  She was inhuman.

 _You chose her_ , Sherlock had said.  If John had known at some bone-deep level that his bride-to-be was a monster, what did that say about him?  Was he her perfect match?  And what did this mean for Rosie, who was just as much made of Mary as of him?  

Thoughts spinning, John fell into a fitful doze.  His half-slumbering nightmares of Mary stealing Rosie, riding away on a boat as black waters churned and frothed around them.  John tried to swim toward them, but the water was icy and the current strong, submerging him, filling his mouth and lungs.  Every time he broke the surface, gasping, Mary and his child were farther away.  

 

-

 

Days later, Mary announced that she was doing another half-shift at the clinic.

“Helen said I wasn't totally useless last time,” she explained.  “Frankly, I think she’s desperate to take any help she can get…”

John looked up from the journal article he had been half-heartedly perusing.  Reviewing the reward circuitry of addiction was making him vaguely nauseous.  “Isn’t Evans back from holiday?”

Mary shrugged helplessly.  “We’re still understaffed.  Indrah just went on maternity leave, too.”

John kept his mouth shut.  He had spoken to Indrah just last week, and she’d said she was going on leave next week.  “Right.  Well, Rosie and I should be fine here.  You’re leaving…?”

“Now,” Mary confirmed, rolling her eyes.  “Sorry.  It’s short notice, but apparently work’s a madhouse right now.  You sure you’re all right?”

John nodded.  “Yeah.  I’ve just got to get through these,” gesturing to the articles, “and my work’s done for the day.”

Mary drew to his side, face softening as she studied the articles.  John wished he had hidden the topmost one from view.  Mary’s hand fell on his shoulder, kneading the scarred flesh beneath his shirt.  “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“John.”  Mary looked at him directly.  The pity in her gaze made his hackles rise.  “He’s been doing this to himself for, what – a few months?  Maybe his brother can help him.  He’s dealt with it before.”

“Maybe.”

“I know you want to help him,” said Mary.  “That’s the kind of man you are.  You help people.  But if Sherlock doesn’t want you—”

“What does that mean?” John snapped, unable to restrain himself.

Mary’s eyes widened.  “If Sherlock doesn’t want you around, of course.”  Her unspoken question rang in the silence between them:   _What did you think I meant?_

John picked up the article on reward circuitry and slid it under the pile.  He picked the next one from atop the pile – genetic mutations in melanoma patients – and stared at it without absorbing the words.  “Right.”

“Yes,” said Mary.  A pause.  “Well, I’d better get going.  I’ll be back in a few hours.”  Her hand slipped from his shoulder as she walked to the entryway.  John glared at the article, grunted in response to her, “See you in a few hours,” and remained motionless long after the door closed behind her.  

Seconds bled into minutes as John studied the article on melanoma, but he failed to take in a word beyond the abstract.   _Sherlock doesn’t want you._   

Mary lied.  She had lied to John from the moment she met him, and would have lied to him for the rest of their lives if she’d had her way.  She could be lying about Sherlock now.  And anyway, it wasn’t as if she knew Sherlock as well as he did.

_You can’t have me._

Sherlock’s words came back to him like a slap.  John didn’t need Mary’s speculation – Sherlock himself had confirmed it.  Deducing the yearning and fantasies with a glance, he had rejected John in disgust.  And not one minute later, John struck him.  

“Fuck,” John muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Jesus… fuck.”

A faint chime.  John lifted his head, frowning, and the chime sounded again.  Pushing his chair back, John padded through the kitchen and stopped at the base of the stairwell.  He peered into the gloom, waited – and a third chime tumbled down the stairs.  

John was climbing before he could question himself, following the sound to its source:  the bedroom.  Mary’s laptop lay on the bed, cocked open by a corner of the plush comforter.  In her haste to leave, Mary must have not closed the laptop fully, or it had shifted in her bustle.  A glow emanated from the screen.  

As if defusing a bomb, John pried open the laptop.  A messenger app was open, displaying a sidebar of mobile phone numbers and a main screen of bubbled texts.  John recognized most of the names on the sidebar – his own among them – but the contact at the top was unnamed.  The number flashed as another chime sounded.  John swept his finger across the mousepad and clicked on the contact.

A conversation unfolded before him.  

 _New delivery,_ said the stranger. _Having it treated & will send to recipients._

 _Good,_ said Mary. _Give me the shop address._

_136 Ryder Street._

John’s fingers flew, opening a new webpage and typing in the address.  A map proclaimed the address to belong to a business in St. James’s.  He closed the webpage, shut the laptop, and wedged back the piece of comforter in what he hoped was a successful recreation of the scene.  

John moved quickly to evade his creeping doubts.  In the sitting room, he located Rosie’s baby bag and stocked it with food, nappies, and wipes.  He hesitated for a moment, then folded the pilled baby blanket into the bag as well.  He picked up Rosie’s pink bunny coat and carrier on the way to her room.  As he prodded Rosie from her nap and dressed the surly infant, his mind wandered to the name at the address.

 _Garrideb’s Antiques._   _Odd surname, that._

 

-

 

Miraculously, Rosie only fussed a little before slipping into a doze mid-way through the cab ride.  If John had been on his own, he would have taken the Tube, but he wouldn’t dream of cramming a baby into the chaos of London’s Underground.  

After twenty minutes, John paid the cabbie and clambered onto the pavement with Rosie in her carrier.  What a site he must be, he thought - a somber, greying bloke walking about with a pink bunny strapped to his chest.

John scanned the street signs and rounded a corner, passing underneath a low, brick skyway.  The street opened into a courtyard encircled by grungy brick facades.  To his right, a vividly blue door came into view.  A large window stood beside it, dark beyond the open blinds.  As John peered inside, he made out the murky shapes of furniture and knick-knacks crowding shelves.  Beyond that, a square outline of light gleamed through the dimness.  He stepped back and tilted his chin; a grey sign hung above door and window.   _Garrideb’s Antiques._

Through the window, the square outline erupted into full light.  Two figures emerged from the open doorway, one striding quickly, the other limping.  John’s breath caught.  He took a step back.

The front door of the shop flew open and Sherlock Holmes stepped into the sunlight.  His eyes pinned John to the pavement.

“Well.  Hello, John.”

 

 


	7. CHAPTER SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise double update today! I will be out of town/have limited access to my laptop over the next week and a half, so I'm planning the next post for Saturday 12/9. 
> 
> I have no Beta or Britpicker, so if you spot mistakes, please let me know so I can correct them. 
> 
> I'm Zingiberis at Tumblr.

 

Sherlock was shocked by John’s presence at the antiques shop, but he concealed it, willing his pulse to slow and  slipping into a smug grin like he would any other disguise.  

John’s open-mouthed amazement helped.  He could be so charmingly obtuse at times.  

“Sherlock.”  His voice sounded scraped raw.  John’s gaze swept up and down his body, then latched onto his face.  “You look…”

“Alexander!” Sherlock called, turning to stare into the shop.  Shadows peeled away from the dark figure as he emerged onto the threshold.  “Has Mr. Garrideb unloaded the shipment?”

“Shipment?” John echoed.  Sherlock ignored him.

Alexander shook his head.  “He hasn’t called us back in yet.  Best wait a few minutes.”  He frowned.  “I wish he’d let me help.  Little old man could break a hip moving heavy furniture like that.”

“I doubt you could help him,” said Sherlock.  “Not with that leg.”

Alexander shrugged and pursed his lips in a relenting manner.  A stiff breeze rolled past the stoop, blowing away Sherlock’s thoughts with a shiver.  Christ, it was cold.  He yearned to slip back inside, to shut John out and huddle in the musty warmth of the shop.  

“Hello, Mr. Watson,” said Alexander, limping forward to offer a hand.   

John glared at Alexander’s hand, then at Alexander.  “Doctor, actually.”

“Ah,” Alexander said, “I’m so sorry.  It’s been a while, hasn’t it?  What, a month?  Month and a half?”

John grunted and dropped his chin, one hand pressing the back of the stuffed rabbit strapped to his chest.  Sherlock blinked, startled, and damned himself for a blind fool.  He had been so distracted by _John_ that he hadn’t noticed the bloody baby.

“Oh, hello,” Alexander said, his rough voice softening into a croon.  Rosie snuffled as she roused from her nap.  She craned her neck and cooed at Alexander.  Wonderingly, he said, “She’s beautiful.”

“Thanks,” John muttered.  His glare wilted until it was little more than a put-upon frown.  

“How old?” Alexander asked.

“Um.  Couple of months.”  John hesitated, then offered, “Her name is Rosie.”

Alexander’s smile waned, though it was restored a second later.  “It’s a lovely name.”

John nodded.  Clearing his throat, he looked down at Rosie.  A softness suffused his face, transforming the scowl into a gentle smile.  Something in Sherlock’s chest twisted; he shoved his hands into his pockets, searching for a cigarette.  A distraction.  Finding nothing, he ground his heel against the pavement.  

“All right?” Alexander asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped.  “Just bloody cold.”

“Really?  I feel fine.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock muttered, “not all of us are hulking giants, are we?  You’ve got more muscle definition than me.  It keeps you warm.”  Whirling around to glare at Alexander, Sherlock caught a glimpse of John.  The scowl had returned with a vengeance, swiftly deepening into a glare.  Sherlock’s hands twitched in his pockets.  He needed a hit.  “ _What_?”

A deep thump from within the shop caught their collective attention.  A voice trailed after the noise:  “Mr. Holmes, I have it out now!”

“Finally,” Sherlock grumbled.  

He stalked back inside in the hope that John would leave.  Two sets of footsteps followed, dashing that hope to ribbons.  His neck prickled with the acute awareness of John’s stare.

A thin man swayed into the doorway of the back room, brows knitted as he rubbed a handkerchief over dusty spectacles.  The smile twitching over his lips was brief and impersonal.  As he spoke, his fingers continued their cyclic task.  

“Apologies for the wait,” he said.  Coughing delicately, he waved one hand, sending dust motes spinning.  “It’s only that the last chair of this set has been here for years, and though it’s valuable, this is a small shop…”   

“Understandable, Mr. Garrideb.  So.”  Sherlock nodded at the piece standing beside the shopkeeper.  “This is it.”

“Yes.”  Nathan Garrideb nodded gravely.  “Only one of six, but still a treasure on its own.  The Mazarin Chair Collection.”

At a huff near his shoulder, Sherlock turned to find John standing beside him.  His smile was unimpressed.

“A chair, Sherlock?  What’s so special about some posh chair?”

Mr. Garrideb bristled and looked down his nose at John.  “It is a _Mazarin Chair,_ ” he said, enunciating the last two words with a deliberation Sherlock sensed was reserved for children and idiots.  “So named for the Mazarin stones embedded in each one.”  

Mr. Garrideb gestured to a flat, pale stone nestled in the chair back.  The splat was a framework of mahogany-rendered vines, curving and looping in graceful symmetry.  Cradled in the vines’ embrace, the Mazarin stone resembled a shining egg.  

John raised an eyebrow.  “The Mazarin stone?”

Mr. Garrideb sniffed in a superior manner.  “The stone once belonged to a Dutch Count..  Its companions are set in the other five chairs.  Keep her hands off it, will you!  I’ll not have an _infant_ pawing at a Mazarin piece!”

John, who had leaned forward to inspect the stone, dropped his gaze to Rosie.  The baby had awakened silently and was reaching for the stone.  Her little arm flexed, palm outstretched, before she winced and took it back.  

“Sorry,” John murmured conspiratorially.  He straightened and took a few paces back from the chair.  Over Rosie’s protesting crow, he said, “Sounds like a nutter to me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

John shrugged, his half-lidded stare resting on the shopkeeper’s red face.  “Why put a rare stone in a set of chairs?  They’re only furniture.  This Count could have made jewelry, I don’t know, for his wife or whoever he was carrying on with.  Something romantic.  People don’t put much emotional stock in chairs.”

“People such as those don’t appreciate true artistry,” said Mr. Garrideb frostily.  

John hummed noncommittally, but when Mr. Garrideb turned his back, he shot Sherlock a wide-eyed smile:   _What a prat._

Sherlock’s answering smile flashed over his face before he could curb it, declaring his wordless agreement.  John’s smile fell as though cut off.  His eyes slipped from Sherlock’s and traced the crest of his cheekbone.  Lips thinned, he looked away.  

Sherlock wished he still had the bruise John had given him; its bloom had been lovely and violent.  He had tracked its progress for a week before the blues and violets had faded into the color of rot.  The skin now was unblemished – as dull as a blank sheet of paper.  Sherlock wanted to tear it into pieces.

“So, Mr. Garrideb,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat, “you have the addresses.”

“Yes.”  Mr. Garrideb swayed to a shelf crammed with books, spines cracked and loose leaves tattered.  Spidery fingers brushed the worn covers, settled on one seemingly at random, and pried it loose.  He opened the book and flipped through pages.  

“Here we are,” he announced at last.  His gnarled forefinger tapped a line of text.  Sherlock squinted at the faded words.   _15 March 2010 – Mazarin Chair set delivered._ “That’s when I received the set.  It was only recently sold piecemeal.”  He shook his head with a sorrowful expression.  “Utter shame, splitting up that set.  Each one fetched a tidy sum, true, but together…”

“Who was the seller?” Sherlock asked.  “The invoice doesn’t specify.”

Mr. Garrideb sighed and shrugged.  “An agency was selling for an individual, but I soon discovered that the seller lost contact with the agency after putting the set up for sale.  A year passed without contact, and ownership of the set was transferred to the agency.  I tried to convince them to sell the chairs as a complete set – to a museum, at least – but they opted to sell the chairs one at a time.  I told them that no reputable collector would purchase a single piece, but lo and behold, I was proven wrong.”  He rolled his eyes.  “ _Heathens._ ”

“And the addresses of the new purchasers?”

Mr. Garrideb flipped the page.  A new, laminated sheaf had been clipped into the binder with a list of addresses and unit numbers.  The location sitting atop the list was the Peckham Council Tower.  

“These haven’t all been sent,” Sherlock noted.  “Only the Peckham address and,” his finger moved down the list, “this delivery in Marylebone.  That one was sent a week ago.”

“Not all the tenants of these locations are available for immediate delivery,” said Mr. Garrideb with a shrug.  “Some are up-and-coming collectors, you see, trying to establish a new gallery.  I agree to hold the pieces until the locations are suitable for them.  These antiques need to be kept in controlled environments.”

Sherlock scanned the list, memorizing all the addresses and the dates they were to be shipped.  “Right.  Well, next shipments are scheduled for tomorrow, so we can track them as they go.  We’ll go to the Marylebone one now.”

“Do we want to go poking around in this?” Alexander asked.  “The last chair we found was in a sniper’s flat.”

Sherlock nodded, excitement crackling through him, dulling the incessant itch for a hit.  “We found the sniper by chasing your daughter’s funds.  His flat was a dive.  There was no legitimate reason for a Mazarin Chair to be there.  So,” he slapped the back of his hand against the line of addresses, a grin spreading over his face, “the chairs _mean_ something.  But what?”

John shook his head.  “What could chairs mean?”

“Anything,” Sherlock said.  “As long as you have the key, any message in any language can be decoded.  We simply need to translate a language of objects into words.”  He paused and drummed the pads of his fingers together.  “I need another look at Sylvius’ chair.”

Sherlock began walking toward the door, but John rushed into his path.  Halting, Sherlock scowled.  “What?”

“The last time you went off chasing this—this money, you were almost shot,” said John.  “Bit daft to go back on your own, don’t you think?”

Sherlock wavered, poised on a knife’s edge between two impulses.  If John abandoned his responsibilities to come along, they might have the thrill of dashing after criminals together.  Just like old times.  If he chased John away, he could spare John and his own frail heart from danger in a single stroke.   

Sherlock was nothing if not selfish and reckless.  “Well, I won’t be on my own, will I?”

John’s smile was grim.  “‘Course not.”

Rosie chose that moment to interject with a whimper, as if to say _don’t forget about me!_  Now that he was close enough to touch John, Sherlock was loath to look away – but Rosie’s whimpering hit an urgent note, and he peered down at her.  Her face was scrunched red and her tiny arms beat against John’s chest.  

John’s face fell as he raised a hand to pat Rosie’s back.  “Which is what I _wish_ I could say,” he muttered, “but I can’t.  At least not now.  Look, Sherlock, if you can wait an hour or two, I can get a minder—”

“No,” Sherlock said.  “No, I have to go now.  Imperative to the case.”  It wasn’t, but he couldn’t bear waiting for John to make a Sherlock-sized space in his schedule.  “I’ll be perfectly fine on my own.”

John’s expression darkened.  “I am absolutely _not_ letting you go on your own.”

“I can look after her,” Alexander offered.  Sherlock and John whirled around to face him; Rosie squalled at the sudden movement.  Alexander smiled in his easy way.  “I want to help, but with this leg…”

“I,” John began.  His glance darted from Sherlock to Alexander.  “I can’t.  Not with a complete stranger.”

“Understandable,” said Alexander with a nod, “but I’m not a complete stranger, am I?  I’ve known Sherlock for a few months now.”

Sherlock added, “I trust Alexander, John.  You have nothing to fear.”

“Really,” said John.  His smile had vanished, yielding to the flat mask that never failed to precede an outburst, like clouds darkening before a storm.  Glowering, he began, “I’m taking Rosie—”

“Buh!” Rosie interrupted, shrilly enough to demand her audience’s silence.  She craned her neck and stared at Alexander.  With a toothless grin, she proclaimed, “Bah!”

“I think,” Alexander ventured, “she likes me.”  John shot him a filthy look and, smoothly, he added, “And I’ve been cleared by Mycroft Holmes as acceptable company, so you know I’ve had a background check.  A decent one.”

“Mycroft prefers the term ‘rigorous,’” Sherlock said.  “He combs the top level of the M15 archive in his background checks.  If Alexander had anything to hide, he would have found it.”

“M15 security,” Alexander said, chuckling.  “Imagine that.”

John said nothing, did not move an inch – and then he looked at Sherlock.  His hands went to the clasps of Rosie’s carrier, detaching her with expert ease.  Cradling the baby against his chest, he looked Alexander in the eye.  

“We won’t be gone long.  Mycroft has a constant eye on you, even if you did pass muster.”  He may as well have voiced the threat:   _If you hurt a hair on her head, the British government will be the least of your worries._    

Alexander nodded.  His long, dark fingers wrapped around Rosie’s torso and gently eased her from John’s grip.  Bracing her against his shoulder, he bounced her, one hand cradling the back of her head.  Rosie grinned and babbled.

John’s voice was grudging.  “You’re… quite good with her.  She can be a bit shirty around strangers.”

“I’ve had practice,” said Alexander.  The following pause was scarcely longer than a heartbeat.  “I had my own, actually.  Once.”

“Let’s be off, John,” said Sherlock.  Unease curled in the pit of his stomach.  “We mustn’t waste any time.  If the chair is the key, whoever planted it may have already come back to retrieve it.”

“Right,” John said.  Sherlock glanced at Alexander as they left the back room.   He and Rosie shrank into the distance as they walked before shelves edged into view, cutting off pieces of Alexander with the distorted silhouettes of baubles – here a mask, there an inkpot.  The shapes drew around Rosie like a jigsaw puzzle – and then she was gone, swallowed by the shop as Sherlock closed the front door behind them.  

They stood alone on the pavement.  

“Right, then,” said John.  “Let’s get cracking, shall we?”

“Right,” Sherlock replied.  “Yes, of course.”

 

-

 

The Peckham Council Tower was less imposing in the light of day, though Sherlock wondered if that was a fair price to pay for illuminating the disrepair the building suffered.  Stripped of the cloak of night, the pitted gravel around the building was a choked mess of cigarette butts, beer cans, and bits of broken glass.  Plaster curled off the brickwork in patches like flakes of skin sloughing off a leper.  

Lestrade had been reluctant to take Sherlock’s call, and even more reluctant to grant them access to the crime scene.  But when Sherlock heavily implied that Mycroft would make access to the crime scene happen whether the DI liked it or not, Lestrade surrendered, muttering a blue streak under his breath.  

For all his powerlessness, Lestrade would not be shown up on his home turf.  Sherlock and John arrived at the Council Tower to find a group of the Met’s worst and dimmest awaiting them.  Anderson and Donovan stood at the head of the pack, directing their underlings with snappy glee.  

“We closed off the area,” Anderson announced.  His words were rushed, his posture ramrod-straight.  “You can go right up.  We’ve already done our initial forensic workup, which you’ve seen, but we can revise if— _when_ you find something new.”

“Thank you, Anderson,” said Sherlock.  He was eager to get inside.  

Anderson beamed.  “Happy to help.”  

“Come on, John,” said Sherlock.

Anderson’s gaze snapped to John as if just registering his presence.  His countenance chilled to the disdain Sherlock had once known so well.

“Dr. Watson,” said Anderson.  He rounded on his heel and stalked off to join the rest of the Met.  John stared after him.  

“What the hell was that?” he said.

“Anderson fancies himself a detective,” Sherlock said.  “Come on, then.  Crime scene.”

Sherlock could see that John was still annoyed, but he shook off his confusion and followed.  Whispers of the Met tailed them as they passed.

“Didn’t he have a bruise, last we saw him?” Donovan murmured.  “Big, ugly thing.”

“Right,” Anderson muttered.  “And no hint of _him._ Funny coincidence, that.  Makes you wonder.”

Sherlock darted John a glance, but John was glaring at the ground.  A muscle twitched in his jaw.  He’d heard it all.

Sherlock and John slipped into the Council Tower and began climbing the stairs, not bothering to glance at the notice tacked to the lift.  A smog of tension choked the air.  Sherlock’s fingers twitched in an impulse to touch his cheek, trace the memory of the bruise.  

“I,” John began.  “When… when I—”

“In here,” interjected Sherlock.  

He turned into an open doorway and stopped on the threshold.  Tepid sunlight streamed through the open window, revealing a dark patch of water damage on the floorboards.  The light of day could not erase the twilit memory of Sherlock’s last visit:  Sylvius perched beside the window, rifle poised to punch a bullet into John’s brain.  Traces of adrenaline and terror twisted in Sherlock’s chest, made his breathing tight.  

“Sherlock.”  

“I can’t believe Mycroft did something _useful_ ,” said Sherlock, his eyes sweeping the room.  Everything was exactly as he remembered.  Moldering wallpaper, water-stained floorboards, spartan furniture.  Even the stool Sylvius had shot from was present, lying on its side like the bones of a felled creature.  

On the far side of the room stood the Mazarin Chair.  The pale stone gleamed from its nest of vines in the splat.  Identical to its sibling at the shop in every aspect, save for—

Sherlock’s focus snagged on the chair legs and he drew closer, frowning.  They were warped by irregular hills and valleys.  

“John, look at this.”

“What?”

“The chair at Garrideb’s shop had smooth legs.  These are warped.”  Sherlock tilted the chair so it rested on its back legs with the splat braced against the wall.  He prodded the bottom of one leg, shook his head, and prodded the other.  A smile lit up his face as the bottom of the leg detached and clinked against the floor.  Sherlock lifted his hand, brandishing the object that had fallen into his palm:  a metallic square.

“Is that…”

“GPS device.  This must be what led Sylvius here.”

A scuttling sound shuffled down the hall.  Sherlock and John froze, exchanged a look, and raced out of the room in time to see a figure shambling toward the stairwell.  John dashed forward, clearing the space in seconds.  He grabbed the man’s shoulder with one hand and his wrist with the other, sinking low and pivoting in one smooth motion.  His center of gravity lost, the man spun into the wall of the stairwell with a yelp.  The thud of his face connecting with plaster was heavy in the stagnant air.

“Wiggins,” Sherlock gasped.

“ _Ow_!” Billy Wiggins shrieked.  His free hand went to his face and he slid to his knees.  “You again!  You’re bloody insane, you are!”

“What are _you_ doing here?” John snarled.  Wiggins shot him a mulish glare, only to flinch as John twisted his wrist.  “Explain yourself.   _Now._ ”

“Wasn’t doin’ nothing!” Wiggins whimpered.  “Just—just checking on a client!”

John stiffened and looked at Sherlock.  Seeing the suspicion written on his face, Sherlock hastened to say, “This building is abandoned.  You have no clients here.”

Wiggins flailed for an excuse.  “I was… hoping you’d come ‘round.”

“Nope,” said Sherlock, popping the ‘p.’  “Mycroft ran you off weeks ago.”

“Doesn’t seem to have slowed you down,” Wiggins grumbled.

“Try again,” Sherlock said, “and don’t bother lying.  I’ll know, and John will be utterly _chuffed_ to break your arm.”

Wiggins looked pleadingly at John, who shook his head with a predator’s grin.  “Sorry.  Spraining is a one-time courtesy.”

“Mad, the pair of you!”

“Sherlock,” John said.

“Right.”  Sherlock strode forward and ran his hands down Wiggins’ body.  A switchblade was stowed in the pocket of his hoodie, no doubt forgotten in the fog of pain.  “Now talk.  And if you give us any trouble, do be aware that the Met is waiting just downstairs.  You’ve got enough on you without this,” holding up the knife, “to be taken in.”

“Just an errand,” Wiggins muttered.

“Be more specific.”

Wiggins glared at the floorboards.  “Can’t.  They’ll mess me up proper if I rat them out.”

“More than a broken arm?” John inquired.  “More than an arrest?”

Wiggins wheezed out a laugh.  “Yeah.  If I’m lucky.”

“You came here for the chair,” Sherlock surmised.  Wiggins’ instant of wide-eyed surprise confirmed it.  “Why now?  It’s been here for a month.  It could have been removed at any time.”

“Not with your creepy big brother watching the place.  Only managed to sneak in because the Met was making such a fuss out there.  Bloody herd of cattle, they are.”

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed.  “But even then, I doubt Mycroft would lapse and not notice you.  The moment you walked outside, he would have had you.”

“Whoever hired you doesn’t care if you’re caught,” John said as the realization dawned.  

“Precisely,” said Sherlock.  “You have nothing to gain by helping them, Wiggins.  In fact, if they’re half so dangerous as you believe, incarceration by Mycroft may be the best protection you can get.”

Uncertainty flashed across Wiggins’ face.  “S’not… s’not so easy.  Got in with these people by mistake.  Now I can’t get out.  Your brother hasn’t tracked ‘em down yet.”

Sherlock could not contain his grin as another piece of the puzzle snapped into place.  “You’re working for the people stealing Effie Grant’s money – and they’re funneling it through the Mazarin Chairs.”

“It was a mistake!” Wiggins insisted.  “Needed the money, I did, since Mycroft Holmes ran most of my clients off!  All business as usual, until they wanted me to start running sodding furniture all over the city!”

“Tell us everything you know and I’ll see that you’re protected.”

“Nah.”  Wiggins shook his head, wriggling feebly in John’s hold.  “Nah, they’re too clever for that.  They know everything, these people.  Got eyes everywhere.”

“Oh,” John breathed.

“Mycroft also has eyes everywhere,” Sherlock persisted.  “He may not have found them yet, but he will.  It’s only a matter of outlasting them.”

“Sherlock,” said John.  “How did they know we were coming here?”

Sherlock’s knuckles whitened around the switchblade as another puzzle piece fell into place – not with the clean snap of edges fitting, but with a thunderous crash that obliterated the entire image.  

“They have the shop bugged,” he said, already whirling toward the stairwell.  “Alexander and Rosamund are—”

“Oh my God,” said John, the blood draining from his face.  He followed Sherlock, dragging Wiggins in their wake, and soon the three of them were stumbling down the stairs.  

They were out the front door in seconds and sprinting across the crumbling pavement.  The busy, antlike figures of the Met grew, resolved into humans, and stilled as they noticed Sherlock and John’s approach.  Anderson and Donovan hastened to meet them; whatever was on Sherlock’s face made Donovan hesitate, pressing her lips together.  

“Take him into custody for possession of Class A drugs,” Sherlock rasped, gesturing at Wiggins, “and get us a car.  Quickly!”

“We can’t just—”

“We don’t have time to waste!” John barked.  “My daughter is in danger.  Get us a car _now_!”

To their credit, Anderson and Donovan only hesitated for an instant before springing into action.  Donovan signaled for two officers to collect Wiggins, who glared daggers at Sherlock while he was restrained and searched.  Meanwhile, Anderson lead Sherlock and John to a patrol car.  As they sped along the A302, Sherlock dialed Alexander’s mobile and tried to calm his breathing as the phone rang, rang, _rang_.

The line clicked and a deafening wail filled Sherlock’s ears.  Alexander’s voice could barely be heard above it.  “Where are you two?”

“On our way back,” Sherlock said in a rush.  “You need to leave the shop, it’s bugged.  Take Rosamund to Baker Street and wait for us there.  I’ll call Mycroft and he’ll have his minions secure the flat.”

“She’s crying.”  John’s voice was low, as if he was speaking to himself.  “I can hear it.  It’s… different.  Wrong.  What’s happened?”

Sherlock relayed the question to Alexander, who heaved a sigh.  “There’s… there’s been an incident.  I’ve handled it,” he hastened to add as panic filled Sherlock’s throat, gumming his words together, “but you two need to get back here now.  Your friend, the DI?  He’s on his way, and I don’t think I can talk my way out of this.”

“Alexander,” Sherlock said, “tell me what _happened._ ”

“Rosie is fine, I swear.  But you have to hurry.”

The line went dead before Sherlock could get a word in edgewise.  Lowering the phone, he glared at the screen and debated ringing back, but he knew it would be a futile effort.  Alexander acted mild and biddable, but there was a will of steel beneath the façade.  

“Sherlock!” John hissed.  His fingers curled in the fabric of Sherlock’s coat sleeve, dragging him back to the present.  His eyes were wide with ill-restrained panic.  “What happened?  Is Rosie...”  His voice betrayed him and he stared, pleadingly.  

Sherlock could no more ignore that look than he could stall his beating heart.  His hand rose to dwarf John’s, fingers cradling his.  

“She’s fine, John,” he said.  “I promise.”

John bit his lip and nodded.  His gaze dropped to their joined hands, and Sherlock watched as fear was transmuted into… something else.  Sherlock released John’s hand, feeling air rush into the gap like the air in an unsealed sarcophagus.  John’s hand fell to his side, fingers drifting aimlessly over the upholstery.  

“You were disgusted,” he said, “when I…”

“I wasn’t disgusted,” Sherlock burst out.  “ _You_ were disgusted.  That’s why you hit...”

John’s face contorted as though in great pain.  The wrongness of it sank into Sherlock, hurting in a deep, visceral way.  John shouldn’t be in pain.  It spurred a torrent of thoughts and _feelings_ , all jumbled into fragmented speech.  

“Which was fine,” Sherlock said.  “I goaded you on.  Made…”  The word stuck in his throat.  “Advances.  Toyed with you.  It was wrong, I know, but I only…”  He trailed off, registering the look of horror on John’s face.  “It’s all gone wrong, you and I.  You’ve got Rosamund and Mary now.  There’s no place for—”

“Mary?” John began, eyes widening.  “Sherlock, Mary and I…”

His words were lost as the trill of a police car siren sliced through the air.  The scant flush that had returned to John’s features vanished.  As soon as the cab halted, John was out the door and running toward a cluster of flashing lights surrounded by crime scene tape.  

Sherlock’s mind was numb as he found his wallet and paid the fare.   _‘Mary and I…’_ Mary and he what?  

Sherlock climbed out of the cab and followed John slowly, as if stumbling through a dense fog.  Facts were piecing together before him, startling and true.  Just like John himself.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s voice cut through his thoughts, punctuated by a rough hand clapping over his shoulder.  “You need to come with me.  There’s been an incident.”

Reality crashed down on Sherlock.  “Rosamund.”  

Lestrade shook his head.  “The baby is fine, I promise you.  Well, she’s having a bit of a meltdown, but that’s to be expected.  They’ve had a fright.”

“’They?’” Sherlock repeated.  Lestrade shouted and the crowd of officers parted, clearing a path for them to cut to the heart of the chaos.  The door to Garrideb’s Antiques stood ajar.  Blue and red lights flashed, casting phantoms of fire and ice against the shop windows.  

“The fellow looking after her,” explained Lestrade, “and Mr. Garrideb.  Seems like a man broke in and tried to rob the shop.  We aren’t clear on the details, but…”

Lestrade pushed the door open and Sherlock moved past him as if drawn by an invisible line.  At the other end of the line was John, cradling Rosie against his chest and crooning softly as she heaved exhausted sobs.  John met Sherlock’s eye.  He looked over Rosie’s head to the door of the back room.  

Rosie’s wailing faded as Sherlock strode to the back room and stepped over the threshold.  Lestrade, close at Sherlock’s heels, shut the door behind them.  

The back room was small, and made smaller by shelves crammed with knick-knacks of every conceivable nature.  Dusty figurines of ballerinas and clowns cavorted beside clocks with chipped faces and inert dials.  Books were crammed, spines bulging, between bookends resembling gryphons, hounds, and squat little men.  Miniature paper hot-air balloons hung from the ceiling, perpetually suspended in flight.  

All of these details were lost on Sherlock in an instant.  He saw only three things.  The first was Mr. Garrideb, huddled on a stool behind a work bench with his head in his hands.  The second was Alexander Grant, who stood opposite of Sherlock.  His broad shoulders were bunched, his feet apart as if ready to dash, leg be damned.  He looked ready for a fight.

The third was a man lying on the floor.  He was stone-dead, neck broken at an obscene angle.  

Sherlock looked at Alexander.  “Oh.”

“I admit,” Alexander said, his tone measured, “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

 

 


	8. CHAPTER SEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no Beta or Britpicker, so if you spot mistakes, please let me know and I can correct them. :)
> 
> I'm Zingiberis on Tumblr.

Wiggins knew he was being tailed.

Shivering in his sodden hoodie, he cursed under his breath and scanned his surroundings.  Sheets of rain lashed down, veiling the streets and alleyways in a shimmering mist.  The street was almost empty but for Wiggins and his pursuer; a few others trudged through the gloom, heads bent, shoulders stiff against the deluge.  They paid him no mind as he stalked past, every step on the verge of a sprint.

Wiggins sensed his pursuer closing the gap with every passing moment.  The temptation to break into a run was great, but his encounter with Sherlock bloody Holmes and his mad sidekick was fresh in his bruised arm and bloody nose.  His head pounded and the world swayed around him.  To run would invite disaster.  

He had to find a Tube station.  If he could get to a station, he could slip into the Underground and lose his pursuer in the labyrinth of tunnels and crowds.  From there, he could get to one of his bolt-holes, lie low for a while.  Wait until he faded in the Met’s collective, bovine mind.

As he walked, Wiggins glanced sideways under the pretext of checking the street to cross.  In his peripheral vision, the figure of his pursuer loomed larger than when Wiggins had last looked.  The rain obscured his features, leaving only a dark, smearing impression of a man.  Wiggins’ feet kicked up droplets as he quickened his stride.  

At first, he had suspected his pursuer was police – an officer less dim than his comrades, who had been so preoccupied with seeing off Sherlock that Wiggins had been able to slip away before the patrol car was out of the car park.  But he should have been able to shake an officer several streets down, darting into alleyways and hopping fences more than once.  No, this man was more predator than officer of the law.  

Wiggins crossed a street and hustled onto a sidewalk beside a little bay.  Rain undulated on the water’s surface, creating a gossamer film that blurred the line between river and sky.

The area was too open, so Wiggins took the first outlet he saw:  a narrow walkway between houses, budding and green with the newness of spring.  Stone walls rose on both sides of the path as he stumbled through, shoes squelching in the mud.  He saw a dip where one wall had crumbled, climbed through, and squeezed into a slim gap between two houses.  The street he stepped onto was all but deserted.  He backtracked to the bay, thinking to throw off his pursuer.  

Rain roared in Wiggins’ ears, deafening as the torrent grew heavier.  Forget finding a Tube station – he needed only to get  _ inside _ , then he could check his phone—

A hand clapped roughly over Wiggins’ shoulder and its twin found his mouth, smothering his yelp.  He twisted, but the man holding him was strong, and his arm and head throbbed with pain.  Beneath the crash of rainfall, a voice murmured in his ear:

“Sorry, you’ve become a liability.  But I’m a sporting man.  I’ll give you a twenty-second head start.  Three, two…”

The man released Wiggins and he bolted, heedless of his aching head, his swimming vision.  Rain pelted him as he ran, each drop striking as if to push him back toward the hunter.  A ragged shout tore free from his throat, but the sound was drowned out by the storm.  Heart hammering, he ran as though his life depended on it.  He knew it did.  

Bizarrely, Wiggins found himself sifting through memories as he ran.  Sitting on the stoop of his family home in Haringey, waiting for his dad to come home after a day’s shift. Fidgeting impatiently during Christmas dinners, eager for the gifts to be brought out.  The interminable time between snorting cocaine and the rush of euphoria.

_ All the good things, _ he thought,  _ take too long. _

The bad things, though – like a twenty-second countdown to your death – come too quickly.  Blink, and they’ve already passed.

 

-

 

The rain had started suddenly and violently mid-way through the cab ride from Garrideb’s Antiques to Baker Street.  Drumming against the windows, it created a calming white noise.  

Rosie had cried herself into exhaustion and now lay slumbering in John’s arms.  Shifting the warm weight of her, John made himself comfortable in his old armchair.  The cushions conformed to his shape as if they had held no other person in his absence.  Knowing Sherlock – knowing what John knew now – they probably hadn’t.  

_ Do I know it?  _ _ Or am I just seeing what I want to see? _

John swept his gaze around the sitting room of 221B.  Some things were unchanged:  the same ridiculous smiley face adorned the far wall, the same penknife skewered Sherlock’s letters, the same skull surveyed its domain.  It was as though he had been transported back in time. 

Anxiety filled John as his gaze drifted through the kitchen doorway and linger on the bare tabletop.  If he went into the kitchen and looked in the cabinets, the bins, would he find syringes and filters?  If he searched Sherlock’s room, would he find morphine?  Cocaine?

Rosie whimpered in her sleep.  John rocked her absently, unable to look away from the kitchen.  

“John,” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John, turning his eyes back to the sitting room. 

“You seemed… distracted.”

“Mm.  Knackered.  Got lost in thought for a minute,” said John.  He cast Alexander Grant a hard look.  “Let’s get on with it.”

Alexander’s big form all but dwarfed the little wooden chair Sherlock had brought out for him.  Even with the time and care he had taken to lower himself into the chair, weak leg threatening to give out, he was perfectly poised.  

Another memory surfaced:  Mary, small and neat and poised as she sat and waited for Sherlock and John’s verdict.

_ This is where you sit and talk _ .   _ And this is where we sit and listen.  Then we decide if we want you or not. _

“Everyone here has been fully informed on the case you brought to me,” Sherlock told Alexander.  He swept a hand around the room, encompassing John and Lestrade.  The DI stood near the sofa, having refused a seat.

John studied Alexander, trying to process what Sherlock had told him.  As a father, he knew the bone-deep fear of seeing harm come to his child; as a doctor, he knew how leukemia could ravage a body.  The two types of knowledge combined to form a potent emotion – one that felt suspiciously like  _ sympathy _ .  John hated himself for feeling it, and hated himself for being petty enough to hate himself.  Between his daughter’s death and his wife’s suicide, Alexander Grant’s story was a deeply sad one.  

“Everything about your daughter and your wife,” said Lestrade, “that’s all true?”

“Yes,” said Alexander.  “I may have omitted things, but I never lied outright.”

“A lie of omission is still a lie,” Lestrade retorted.  

“Alexander is entitled to his own affairs,” said Sherlock.  John and Lestrade looked at him, their expressions matched in surprise.  Lifting his chin, he said, “As long as it doesn’t pertain to the case, I don’t care about it.  Frankly, I’m appalled I didn’t deduce it earlier.  I only knew that you were keeping secrets.”

“Well?”  Alexander massaged the knob of his knee with a wince.  “What have you deduced now?”

“That you were not injured as a soldier,” Sherlock said.  “That happened in a different line of work.”

“Can we skip the exposition, please?” Lestrade cut in.  “We have a dead man on our hands.”

“I was coming to that,” Sherlock said, his tone quelling.  “It was in this line of work that Alexander learned how to kill so effectively.  Am I wrong?”

“Not entirely,” said Alexander.  “The army helped, but yes, I became… proficient… with the other work.”

Grim understanding dawned on John.  “What was it?”

Alexander looked up then.  His dark eyes roved to John, flat and reptilian.  John had seen eyes like those before.  They had watched John and Sherlock choose to die together at the pool where Carl Powers died.  They had watched Sherlock in the empty house of Leinster Gardens, deliberating whether or not to shoot him while John waited in the dark.

“You were an assassin,” said John.

Lestrade stiffened.  Sherlock’s knuckles flexed atop the armrests of his chair.  A suspicion stole into John’s mind.  Was the flat bugged, too?  Was Mycroft watching – and if so, was he reeling from this news or had he anticipated it?

Alexander dipped his head in a nod.  “I suppose I was.   _ Agent _ is the proper term, but it’s really just… window dressing.  Detective Inspector, I can see you’re alarmed.  I’ll give you my information later and you can validate my work with my former employers.  I assure you, I am as legitimate as they come.”

“As legitimate as killers come,” Sherlock breathed.  

Alexander’s smile was wry.  “My people look after their own, even after they’ve gone.”

“You’re very calm about this,” John remarked.  “You’ve killed a man.”

Sherlock shot John a look that plainly said,  _ You had no problem killing Sylvius.   _ John ignored him.  Sylvius had as good as killed himself the moment he drew a gun on Sherlock.  

Alexander shrugged.  “I saw what I judged to be a threat and eliminated it.  You should be thanking me, Dr. Watson.  Your daughter was in the shop with us.”

John hugged Rosie closer to his chest, guilt gnawing at him.  He had left Rosie alone to chase Sherlock, and not an hour later she had fallen directly into danger’s path.  If John had been there, he could have protected her.  If he had been there, he couldn’t have kept an eye on Sherlock.  The encounter with Wiggins had been harmless, but John knew full well what danger Sherlock could get himself into.  

Guilt chased guilt in an infinite cycle, like an ouroboros eating its own tail.  Rosie, his daughter.  Sherlock, his… what?

_ What? _

“So this man,” Lestrade began, “breaks into the shop while you and Mr. Garrideb are waiting for those two.”  He waved at John and Sherlock.  “He starts making demands…”

“Yes,” said Alexander.  “He wanted to know where ‘it’ was, and when Mr. Garrideb denied knowing what he meant, he became very agitated.  Mr. Garrideb asked him to leave and he said he would only leave once he had ‘it.’”

“And you never learned what ‘it’ was,” Lestrade said.

“Correct.”  Alexander’s back straightened and he folded his hands in his lap.  “When Mr. Garrideb insisted that he had no idea what or where ‘it’ was, the man grew violent.  He shoved Mr. Garrideb into a shelf and began beating him.  Kept shouting ‘I know you know, don’t lie to me’ and so on.  ‘I know he hid it here.’”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened.  “Who is ‘he?’”

“Couldn’t say.”  Alexander shook his head.  His wide-eyed conviction set John on edge; it reminded him of every interaction with Mary until the moment her lies were exposed.  “But the man was clearly unhinged.  I shouted at him to stop and told him I would call the police, which is when he turned on me.  ‘Shut that baby up,’ he told me – well, in less polite terms, but you understand.  I repeated that I would call the police and he left Mr. Garrideb to come after me.  I admit I was caught off-guard.  I fell, still holding Rosie, and the intruder began kicking me.”

John looked down to Rosie and felt his throat close.  His Rosie, his  _ child _ …

“I managed to grab his leg and pull him down,” Alexander continued.  “By then, Mr. Garrideb was phoning the police.  The intruder was grappling with me on the floor.  Realizing that he was running out of time, he pulled a knife on me.  Maybe he was going to attack, or maybe he only wanted to intimidate me – I don’t know.  But I couldn’t wait to find out, not with the baby.  So I pushed Rosie aside, disarmed the man, and eliminated him.  The police arrived not long after that.”

“That all corroborates Nathan Garrideb’s claims,” Lestrade put in.  “Forensics is pulling footage from the CCTV and shop cameras to confirm it.”

“They won’t find anything to the contrary,” Sherlock proclaimed.  “Feel free to waste your lackeys’ time, Lestrade.  I have bigger priorities.”

John was about to demand what Sherlock could possibly be talking about, but the buzz of his mobile phone in his pocket silenced him.  Bracing Rosie against his chest with one arm, he pried a hand free and retrieved the phone.  It was a text from Mary.

_ Where are you two? _

_ Out, _ texted John, clumsy and one-handed.   _ We’ll be back in an hour or two. _

_ Out where? _

John closed the screen and shoved his mobile back into his pocket.  Looking up, he caught Sherlock’s eye.  There was a question in that green-grey stare – one to which John could find no answer.  Smiling tightly, he shook his head for Sherlock to leave it.

“So,” Lestrade reiterated, “we have no idea who this intruder was or what he was looking for, but he was keen enough to commit burglary and assault for it.  What could it have been?  A rare antique, maybe?”

“Possibly,” Sherlock conceded with a shrug.  “Mr. Garrideb’s shop has been used as a front to filter Effie Grant’s funds for months.  No doubt the intruder and the money are connected – it can’t be a coincidence.  A tidy sum could have been concealed in an object…”

John’s phone buzzed again and he reflexively clenched his teeth.  A second buzz followed the first, and a third, and a forth.  Resigned, he pulled out his mobile phone.  Mary’s name flashed across the screen.  

“Shit,” he muttered.  Three faces regarded him quizzically and he said, “It’s Mary.  I’ll…”  He rose from his seat, jostling Rosie against him.  He hesitated.

“Give her to Alexander,” said Sherlock.  John bristled and he added, “Best option out of three, really.  With one busy taking notes and the other an excited junkie.”

John’s mobile buzzed twice more as he stared at Sherlock, noting once more his rail-thin body, his waxen skin.  The scruffy beginnings of a beard only deepened the hollows of his cheeks.  

John’s phone fell still.  Seconds later, a buzz told him Mary had either texted or left a voicemail.  He knew better than to be relieved.  Mary was relentless when she put her mind to it.  

Grudgingly, John surrendered Rosie to Alexander and walked into the kitchen.  He cast a furtive look around the counters and, much to his relief, saw no hint of drug paraphernalia.  Leaning against a counter out of the sitting room’s line of sight, he phoned Mary. 

“Where  _ are _ you,” she said, more command than question.  “No, don’t bother lying.  I know you’re with Sherlock.”

“We’re working a case,” said John, defiance creeping into his tone.

A sigh blustered across the line.  “John.  Doesn’t it strike you as a  _ little _ irresponsible to bring a baby to a case?  Hmm?  Unless Sherlock is working the Case of the Missing Pacifier, I don’t want Rosie anywhere near it.”

“She’s perfectly fine,” John said.  Alexander’s story crowded into his mind and the assurance stuck in his throat.  God, Mary had a point.  “She’s sleeping right now.”

“Bring her back,” Mary ordered.  “Maybe you don’t realize the danger of having Rosie in the same room as Sherlock, but I do.  I’m sorry John,” uttered without a shred of sorrow, “but we have a  _ child. _  We have to face the facts, and the fact is that he isn’t safe for her.”  

“I think he’s getting clean.”  Equal parts frail hope and denial.  

Mary’s laugh was disbelieving.  “John.”

“Don’t.”  

A beat of silence fell, stretched.  When Mary next spoke, her words were cold.  “Bring her back within the hour or I’ll come and fetch her myself.”

She rang off without another word, leaving John in the silence of the kitchen.  Movement flickered in his peripheral vision and he turned.  Sherlock was standing in the doorway, thin arms full of a slumbering Rosie.  

John stared, struck dumb by the picture before him.  The incongruous joining of his two… of them, a pair that had only ever existed on different planes, boundaries brushing with the tension of a building storm.  John had never considered that Sherlock and Rosie could inhabit the same space in his life.  He had never considered that he might want them to.  

But now – faced with the reality of Sherlock holding Rosie – John found he liked the idea.  It seemed  _ right.   _

“Alexander’s gone with Lestrade to give his employment information,” said Sherlock offhandedly.  “He danced around it, but I’m certain he was CIA.  No doubt that’s where he was injured, too.  I assumed it had been in the army.”  He shook his head, lip curled.

John felt a tentative smile curve his mouth.  “There’s always something.”

“The Devil is in the details,” Sherlock muttered.  Eyeing John, he added, “She wants you two back.”

“Oh.  Yes.”  John shifted in discomfort.  “Did you.  How much did you hear?”

“Not much.”  Sherlock shrugged, careful not to disturb Rosie.  “But it’s obvious.”  He opened his mouth as if to continue, then closed it.  

“I’m… sorry,” John said.  “But she’s getting pretty wound up.  If I don’t get going, she’ll probably come here with guns blazing.”  He faltered, gaze wandering to Sherlock’s chest.  Even with the cover of a button-up – far too loose – he could easily pinpoint the location of the scar from Mary’s bullet.  

“I see.”  The two words were uttered with careful deliberation.  “Well.  I’ll ring for a cab.  You don’t want to be waiting out in that.”  He nodded toward the sitting room window, where sheets of rain blurred London into a grey haze beyond the glass.  

“Thanks.”

Sherlock stepped forward, arms extended, and gingerly transferred Rosie to John’s care.  As John took her warm weight, Sherlock’s fingers grazed the outsides of his forearms and… lingered.  Pressed.  John’s breath caught.  Fighting twin urges to pull away and crowd closer, he lifted his chin and looked Sherlock in the eye.

Since their meeting five years ago, Sherlock and John had exchanged countless looks.  Fleeting glances, intense stares, cursory once-overs – it had become a second language for them, one that conveyed more than words ever could.  But the blank look on Sherlock’s face was like looking into an abyss.  John was balanced on the edge of a precipice, free to retreat to safety or fly into the unknown.  

John wanted to laugh.  It really wasn’t a choice, after all.  He had taken that first leap five years ago, following Sherlock over rooftops and under starlight as they chased a murderous cabbie with a bottle of pills.  This was no leap into the unknown – it was the inexorable rush of falling that came after.  It was as natural and irresistible as the pull of gravity.

_ You said you weren’t disgusted, _ he wanted to say.   _ What did you mean? _

“Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock’s blank mask fell away, revealing the raw, impossibly soft expression beneath.  His grip on John’s arms tightened and he drew forward – slowly, so slowly – and pressed his lips to the corner of John’s mouth.  John stood motionless.  He was simultaneously shocked, thrilled, and aware that the wrong response could send Sherlock fleeing like a frightened animal.

The gentle pressure of Sherlock’s lips was gone before John could chase it, leaving him bereft.  Drawing back, Sherlock looked down at John with a mixture of horror and amazement.  

“Sherlock,” John repeated.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, voice shaking.  John barely had time to register the novelty of the apology before the detective barreled onward.  “That—this is what I want, John.  And you said, you said you and Mary were…”  He trailed off, eyes alight with panic.

“We are,” said John.  “Well, we will be.  It’s been… it’s been done for a long time.”

“I got it right?” Sherlock asked.  “I didn’t—didn’t ruin everything?”

“No,” John said, voice thick.  “Christ, you haven’t… come here.”

Sherlock’s fingers pressed John’s arms once, convulsively – and with a sharp indrawn breath, he swayed forward and kissed John full on the mouth.  It was an inexpert kiss, closed-mouthed and shaky, but John felt his pulse spike nonetheless.  Pinioned by Rosie’s weight and Sherlock’s fingers, John couldn’t give in to the longing to wind his arms around Sherlock and thread his fingers through those dark curls.  

Sherlock made a breathy sound somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.  An electric jolt of need tripped down John’s spine; he had to hear that sound again.  Angling his head, he slotted their mouths together, tongue flickering over Sherlock’s closed lips.  Sherlock’s mouth fell open on a gasp and John took the initiative, pressing close.

An indignant yelp cut through the haze.  Rosie squirmed and wailed her annoyance, arms thrashing, hands curled into tiny fists.  Sherlock stepped back as though John had presented him with an armful of red-hot coals.  

“That,” he gasped, “was… ill-advised.”

John was tempted to drag Sherlock into another kiss, but Rosie’s crying was rising to a fever pitch, so he settled for gentling her.  Crooning softly, he rocked her until her sobs faded into watery hiccups.  

“There, there,” he murmured.  “Oh, you’re fine.  Stop making a fuss, darling.   There, there…”  

Rosie’s hiccups subsided.  Turning her head, she caught sight of Sherlock and scowled, as if perfectly aware of who had been party to her discomfort.  

“I didn’t think,” Sherlock began, and John looked up.  Sherlock’s face was flushed and his shoulders rose and fell with ragged breaths.  “I didn’t think you were…”

“Oh,” said John, understanding.  “I… I didn’t think you were, well.”  Evidence tumbled into his mind like a deck of cards revealing a confounding hand.  “I didn’t know what to make of you, honestly.”

“I see,” said Sherlock.

“But… you want.  You want me.”

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh.  “Do keep up, John.”

A chuckle caught John by surprise.  “Don’t be a cock.  I’m overwhelmed.”

The flush in Sherlock’s cheeks deepened as he stepped into John’s space.  Tentatively, he curled on hand around John’s elbow.  

“As always,” he said, “you can follow my lead.”

John’s answering smile vanished at the insistent buzz of his mobile phone.  Sherlock stilled, no doubt feeling the vibrations through John’s frame.  With an apologetic look, John braced Rosie in one arm and pulled out his mobile.  Sherlock’s hand fell away from his elbow as he answered.

“We’re just leaving,” he said without preamble.  He was pleased that his racing pulse and thudding heartbeat had no effect on his cool demeanor.  “No need to worry.”

“Save it.”  Mary’s tone was curt.  “I’m heading out to the car.  I’ll be on my way soon.”

“Mary,” said John, “that isn’t necessary.  I’ve just phoned for a cab.”

Mary said nothing for a moment.  “Fine.”  Then, “You and I really need to talk.”

“Yes,” John agreed, “we do.”

“Don’t be long.”  

Mary rang off.  Something in her voice had chilled John to the core - a hard, jagged note, like the crashing and scraping of sharp stones.  

John slipped his phone back into his pocket and looked at Sherlock.  “I’m sorry.  I’ve got to go.”

Sherlock’s head jerked in a nod and he darted a nervy glance at John.  He bit his lip, and John had to resist an impulse to steal into his space and take over that particular task.  The thought must have been plain on his face, for Sherlock flushed and said, “Yes.  I’ll just… ring for the cab.”  

Sherlock blustered into the sitting room before John could reply.  It was just as well – John needed a moment.  He waited in the kitchen for a few minutes, calming himself and Rosie with a few sedate laps around the table.  When Rosie once again slipped into a doze, John judged himself fit for company and wandered into the sitting room.

Sherlock was a black silhouette against the rain-slicked windows, violin propped under his chin, bow still against the strings.  He gave no indication of noticing John’s entrance, but when John padded to his armchair and took a seat, his head turned a fraction.  

“The cab should be here in less than ten minutes,” he said.  

“Thank you,” John managed.  Sherlock nodded and turned to look out the window.  Fear gripped John:  did Sherlock regret it?  Had it been an experiment, a trial with unfavorable results?  

“Sherlock,” he said.

“I would like,” Sherlock interrupted, eyes still fixed on the street, “for you to join me on the rest of this case.  I know I’ve… I’ve shut you out, but I want you.  Helping me, I mean.  I want your help.”

“Of course,” said John.  “‘Course I’ll help.”

“Thank you.”  The barest smile twitched across his lips.  “Tomorrow, we can locate the rest of the Mazarin Chairs.  They’re the key, John.  I’m certain of it.”

“Hmm.”

Silence.  A space once full of words, mouths, and shared breath was stifled.  The rain beat a steady thrum against the windows, heralding a distant growl of thunder.  Sherlock stood perfectly still, poised to play his violin and utterly quiet.  Rosie snuffled in her sleep.   

A few minutes had passed when Sherlock said, “The cab is here.”  

Reluctantly, John rose from the chair.  After months of practice, he was adept at cradling Rosie with one hand and gathering his things with the other.  He had his jacket on, bag slung over his shoulder, and the baby in her carrier in short order.  Habit carried him to the doorway only for him to draw up short.  Sherlock still stood motionless before the window.

“Text me the details?”  

Sherlock nodded, still refusing to look at John.  “Yes.  Yes, of course I will.”

John nodded and licked his lips, memorizing the lingering taste of Sherlock.  He hesitated as he reached for the doorknob.  He wanted to ignore Mary’s deadline; he wanted to find a place for Rosie to sleep here, in 221B; he wanted to take Sherlock to bed and learn how to make him gasp, whimper, moan.  John wanted to affirm that what had happened was no fluke, that he meant it down to the marrow of his bones.  

John wanted all of those things, but all he could say was, “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

John turned the doorknob, stepped onto the landing, and shut the door behind him.  His footsteps were measured, making each stair creak with his descent.  The drumbeat of rain grew louder as he neared the front door.  A fantasy took shape in his mind – Sherlock throwing the door open, begging him to stay.  John sprinting back up the stairs and gathering Sherlock into his arms.

“Jesus,” he muttered.  He really fucking needed to get it together.

John pushed open the front door, shielded Rosie, and hustled toward the waiting cab.  As the door closed, he could have sworn a few violin notes slipped through the waning gap.  They were sweet, heartbreakingly sad – and then they were gone, lost in the rainfall.

 

-

 

John found Mary waiting in the sitting room.  She did not react when the door opened and John toed off his sodden shoes.  He crossed through the kitchen and hovered in the doorway.  Lounging on the sofa with ankles crossed and hands folded in her lap, Mary radiated composure. 

 Words rose to John’s lips, clamoring from a wellspring that had been dug years ago – since the moment Sherlock reappeared in his life, if he was honest.  “Mary.  We have to talk.”

Mary looked at John from the corner of one eye.  John felt as if he was facing a poisonous snake, sunning itself on a rock and contemplating whether or not to strike the nearby prey.  

Wordlessly, Mary stood and rounded the side of the sofa.  The hem of her nightgown fluttered around her calves and her feet were bare.  It struck John how dark the sitting room was, how cloistered.  Mary had shut the blinds and left the lamps off, allowing twilight to sap the light from the room.  Even the television squatting in front of the sofa was powered off.  

Mary stopped, her bare toes inches away from John’s wet, sock-clad feet.  Gently, she lifted Rosie out of her carrier.  She cradled the baby against her shoulder, pressing her nose to the top of her downy head.  

“She smells like him.”  

John was caught off-guard.  “What?”

“She smells,” Mary said, voice low, “like him.  Like Sherlock.  You let that—that  _ junkie _ handle our daughter.”

“It was all fine,” John said, barely able to restrain his anger.  The last thing he wanted was for Rosie to wake to her parents’ squabbling, but it was a near thing.  “Sherlock was good with her.”

“You smell like him too,” said Mary.  Then, as if chatting about the weather, she asked, “Did you fuck him?”

John was stunned into silence.  Mary’s reptilian expression twisted into a sweet smile – a cruel phantom of the Mary Morstan he had fallen in love with.  The woman who had swept into the barren husk of his life like a spring breeze chasing away the winter cold, and who had been just as fleeting.  

“Not yet?” Mary asked.

“Jesus Christ, Mary.”

“But you want to, don’t you?  Ooh, look at that blush!  It’s adorable.”

“Don’t.”

“Dunno what you see in him, to be honest,” said Mary.  “He’s practically a bag of bones at this point.  Won’t take him much longer to finish himself off.  Oh!”  She chuckled.  “I see.  You want to give him a go  _ before _ that happens.  Makes sense.”

“Mary,” John said, softly.  “Shut.  Up.”

The sweet smile disappeared.  Mary’s eyes narrowed into slits.  “Don’t you dare speak to me like that.”

“Don’t talk about Sherlock like that,” retorted John.  

Over the wispy halo of Rosie’s hair, Mary’s eyes were cold and impassive.  John stared back, biting down on a command for her to hand over the baby.  He had the sense of slowly, slowly backing a savage animal into a corner – if his patience slipped for an instant, Mary would see through him and… what?  Wild creatures relied on fight or flight instincts.  

Fear gripped John.  It wasn’t a fear of fighting Mary, but of the possibility that she might flee.  If Mary bolted, Rosie vanished with her.  

“You said that you had forgiven me,” said Mary.  “Was that a lie?”  John said nothing and she laughed without mirth.  “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.  You never forgave me.  Nothing I did – nothing I  _ can _ do – will make me good enough for you, is that it?”  She sneered.  “John.  I don’t  _ need _ you to love me.”

_ Good, _ John was tempted to say.  He wanted to tear Rosie away from Mary’s embrace, to keep his daughter safe while this—this utter fucking travesty of a marriage was put out of its misery.  “It’s over.  You and I.”

Mary’s eyes blazed, but she only said, “Yes, it really is.”  

Rocking Rosie gently, she turned, feet whispering against the carpet as she made her way to the stairwell.  John did not follow; the thought of sharing her bed made bile rise in his throat.  The only option left to him was the sofa. 

John stooped, peeled off his sodden socks.  He was too exhausted to bother with the hamper.  Trudging toward the kitchen, he unstrapped Rosie’s carrier and unzipped his jacket.  Droplets plinked against the tile as he hung up jacket and carrier.  He unearthed a musty old duvet from the closet and tossed it on the sofa.  

Locking the front door, John returned to the sitting room and, checking that the baby monitor was turned on, settled down to sleep.  The ceaseless thrum of rain and the events of the day conspired to sap the dregs of John’s energy.  As he closed his eyes, however, a sense of wrongness weighed on him.  He felt wary, out of place – this was Mary’s den, and he was an intruder.  

Despite his unease, thoughts of Sherlock rose in his mind.  The warm, dry brush of his lips; the imprint of his fingers on John’s forearms; the thready whimper-sigh.  John’s memories replayed the warm, ragged breaths gusting against his lips, stealing into his mouth.  The tempo of their shared breathing soothed John like the soft ticking of a metronome; at last, sleep claimed him.  

 

-

 

John woke, dragged out of the misty boundary between sleep and awareness with disorienting speed.  The duvet was a roasting cocoon around him.  Dreamy figments of Sherlock shifted across the backs of his eyelids; arousal sang through his veins like a thunderclap.  His hand was shoved down his boxers, fisted tightly around his rigid cock.  

Biting back a groan, John worked himself roughly, his need too urgent for finesse.  Heat smoldered low in his pelvis, dancing and curling tongues of flame.  Dream memories filtered through the haze:  Sherlock pinned beneath him, ankles hooked at the small of John’s back; Sherlock’s plush lips stretched, red, spit-slicked around John’s cock; Sherlock’s violinist fingers curled around them as they rutted together, their mingled precome smoothing the way.  

John untucked the corner of the duvet and kicked free from the cloistering heat.  The air outside was like ice against his burning skin.  John shoved his boxers down, kicked them off, and planted his feet against the sofa cushion to better arch into the tunnel of his fist.  The slick of sweat and leaking excitement eased his way.  

John let his imagination run wild, stealing scraps of dreams and memories and painting them into a vivid image.  His hand became the hot clench of Sherlock’s body, straddling him, riding him fast and hard, lungs punching out rhythmic grunts.  John gripped Sherlock’s waist, thumbs bruising the flesh behind the iliac crests as he was dragged down to meet John’s thrusts.  His hand tightened around himself as he imagined Sherlock tightening, gasping that he was close, he was so close,  _ John, I’m going to— _

All at once John was at his peak.  He barely had the time to turn his head and stifle his cry against his shoulder.  His orgasm rocked through him – intense pleasure pursued swiftly by panic.  Clambering upright, John scanned the room.  All was silent past the pattering of rain and his own huffing breaths.  When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noted with relief that he was alone.  Mary was still upstairs.  

John’s fingers were clumsy as he picked up one of his discarded socks.  The fabric was still damp, making it an effective – if clammy – wipe for his hand and stomach.  Once he was clean, John wadded the sock with its mate, dragged on his boxers, and went into the kitchen.  He tossed the socks in the wash – he would deal with them later.

The kitchen tile was cool against John’s bare feet.  Opening a cupboard, he found a glass, filled it from the tap, and settled down at the kitchen table.  He took a deep gulp, worrying at the figment of Sherlock like a tongue worries at a loose tooth.  

The Sherlock of John’s fantasies was healthy: his needle marks faded with age, his frame trim but supple, his eyes clear and bright.  

Beside this vision, the true Sherlock was a wraith.  How had John let him fall so far?  How had he let petty grudges and pride whittle Sherlock into this—this damaged, fragile shell?  

John took another gulp of water to work past the lump in his throat.  Certainty crystallized in his mind:  he had to help Sherlock.  He had to keep Sherlock from killing himself – because if Sherlock succeeded, John would not survive it.  


	9. CHAPTER EIGHT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be doing another double-update today, as this chapter is pretty case-fic intensive (also, I'm impatient lol). 
> 
> As always, please let me know if you spot any mistakes or obvious Americanisms so I can correct them. Thanks!
> 
> I'm Zingiberis on Tumblr.

 

 

Mary was awake before the text alert fell silent, untangling her arms from the duvet to reach for her mobile phone. One of the numbers Winter had given her flashed across the screen.  She rubbed her brow with a sigh.  

 _Put down the dealer just like you wanted.  Also got some interesting news for you_.  

 _Better be good news,_ she texted back.   _I hope you didn’t wake me at three a.m. for a social call._

 _Not this time, Miss Adelbert._  

Mary’s thumbs stilled.  Being addressed by her old surname – one of them, anyway – was akin to wandering into a house and realizing, as she stared at blank walls and empty rooms, that it had once been hers.  Every personal belonging and fond memory had been stripped away, leaving behind the husk of an abandoned life.  

Mary set her jaw and tapped out a curt response:   _That is no longer my name._

 _Rosamund Mary Adelbert._ Winter’s reply was swift.  She could practically hear his mocking tone as he recited the name.  

 _Get to the point,_ she sent.   _And if the point was to tease me, I’ll shoot you in the head just so I can get some sleep._

Mary watched ellipses dance at the bottom of the screen.  She was expecting some inane babble along the lines of “All right, all right, don’t get your panties in a bunch,” but surprisingly, Winter got right to the point.  

_The other half of A.G.R.A. is in London._

Mary froze, a chill sinking into the marrow of her bones.   Memories flooded her mind, tinged with a clinging residue of emotions she had thought long-dead.  Emotions she had drowned.  The abandoned house was not quite as abandoned as she had thought; a familiar voice echoed down the hall; a familiar face coalesced in the shadows.  

 _He knows,_ she texted.

_Yep.  Not as stupid as we thought._

Rage flared, as automatic as breathing, strained like a long-neglected muscle.  Mary waited until it had passed before setting her thumbs to the screen.  

_Where is he?_

A suspicion was taking form, too sharp-edged to dismiss as paranoia.  She knew.  Of course she knew.  In the darkness of her bedroom, she breathed, “The universe is rarely so lazy.”

Winter’s text contained only three words:   _With Sherlock Holmes._

 

-

 

Sherlock’s hands shook as he put the tea tray down on the sitting room table, making the China rattled and the tea slosh.  He flexed his fingers and stared at his hands; the shaking lessened, but a low-grade tremble coursed through him like an electric current.  

The shaking was the least of Sherlock’s recent onslaught of annoyances.  A headache pounded behind his temples like ice picks being driven through his ears.  A clammy sheen of sweat clung to his skin and chilled him to the bone.  Pain smoldered through his muscles and reduced every movement to shaky jerks.  

And yet, none of these compared to the greatest annoyance, which was due any moment now.

Sherlock’s gaze slid toward the kitchen.  Mrs. Hudson had cleared out his paraphernalia and Mycroft had chased away his dealers, but there was a tile above the sink that could be pried off, a hole carved into the wall behind it, a few packets of powder stashed inside for emergencies.  A hit, that was all he needed.  Just a small hit to stop the shaking…

The door to the flat swung open and Mrs. Hudson emerged, expression wary.  She bore a plate laden with profiteroles, chocolate drizzled down the sides and dollops of cream bulging out of the centers.  Her eyes widened with affront.  “So.  You’ve finally decided to be a responsible adult and make your own tea, is that it?”

“No,” Sherlock said, petulantly.  “I’m making a point.  Bring those over here, will you, and put them all here.”  He lifted a delicate plate up for her to see and set it by the teacup opposite of his.  

Mrs. Hudson goggled.  “All on that side?”

“Precisely.”

Huffing, Mrs. Hudson toddled over and set her plate beside the tea tray.  With the utmost care, Sherlock piled the profiteroles in a blobby tower beside the teacup.  Perfect.

“Thank you,” he said.  “This is just what I needed.”

Mrs. Hudson stared, no doubt befuddled by Sherlock’s sincere use of the phrase “thank you.”  Mustering a put-upon sigh, she said, “It really is, you know.  You’ve gone quite… peaky.”

Discomfort seeped through the simmering nausea in Sherlock’s gut.  Try as he might, he could not excise the soft spot he had for Mrs. Hudson.  She was an incessant natterer, a busy-body, and more morally questionable than any old lady had a right to be – though if Sherlock was honest with himself, he quite liked that last bit.  He was too fond of her by far.   

“They’re not for me,” he said.  

“Then who…”

She was cut short by the creak of the opening front door.  Sherlock’s lip curled as his greatest annoyance swanned into the sitting room, umbrella in hand, eyeing the flat with detached disdain.  Slowly – as if Sherlock were merely a part of the scenery – the languid gaze roved to him and halted.  

“So good to see you, brother mine,” Mycroft said with a smile that did not reach his eyes.  He nodded at Mrs. Hudson, shamming deference.  “And you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Hudson said, hand fluttering to her breast.  “I think someone’s just walked on my grave, I’ve just had such a chill…”

Mycroft’s smile drooped into a frown of deep annoyance and he rolled his eyes.  The moment he was not watching her, Mrs. Hudson winked at Sherlock.   

“Well, I’ve got some tarts to bake,” she said, wiping nonexistent dust from her frock.  “How do I look?”

“Marvelous,” said Sherlock.  “Mr. Chatterjee will wish he wasn’t married twice over.”

“Oh, hush, you.”  Mrs. Hudson drew to his side and playfully swatted his shoulder.  “It’s not what it seems.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I helped put your late husband in the electric chair.  You won’t have a hint of judgement from _me._ ”

Mrs. Hudson snorted at his deadpan tone.  “Look at you, making jokes.  You really must be feeling better.”  Leaning in close, she added in a hushed voice, “It’s never what it seems, is it?  You and I, we know these things.”

She drifted away and was tottering down the stairs before Sherlock could find his voice.  As if sensing his discomfort, Mycroft favored him with an oily smile.

“I see congratulations are in order,” he said.

“Shut up,” Sherlock grumbled.  Pushing down memories of warm lips and ragged breaths, he added, “Sit.  You must be absolutely exhausted, walking up the stairs and… standing around like that.  And look!”  He swept a hand toward the heaping tea tray.  “I’ve prepared light refreshments.”

“Childish,” Mycroft muttered.  “I only jest about the congratulations.  I would advise you to reconsider this… dalliance.”

“A _dalliance?_ ”  Sherlock was torn between mortification and amusement.  

“With Dr. Watson,” clarified Mycroft.  As if Sherlock carried on so many _dalliances_ he couldn’t keep track of them all.  “It would not be… safe for you.”

Sherlock glowered at his brother.  “I don’t need you minding me.”  

“No,” Mycroft said, “you prefer to let Dr. Watson do that.”  He lifted his umbrella and inspected the pointed end, as if this line of conversation was less interesting than scuffed rubber.  “You can’t trust him.”

Sherlock clamped his teeth on a reflexive reply:   _I trust John more than anyone._  “Your new status is making you even more paranoid than before.”

“It is rather justified when all my enemies end up on your doorstep, don’t you think?”

Sherlock, eager to steer the conversation away from John, said, “You know who that man was.  The one who broke into Nathan Garrideb’s shop and assaulted Alexander.”

Mycroft nodded, lips pursed.  “Ioane Sala.  I had thought he was chum, but evidently he was a bigger fish than I anticipated.  His primary role was running sex trafficking rings scattered throughout Bulgaria.  He was offered control of heroin transport routes through Turkey by James Moriarty.  Unfortunately for him, Moriarty put a bullet in his brain before they could sort out the paperwork.”

“So Sala was looking at Mr. Garrideb’s shop for the same thing Sylvius wanted,” Sherlock mused.  “What could they both want… ah, leverage.  But what kind?  And against whom?”

“Against me, of course,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes.  “ _Do_ try to keep up, will you?  Sala knew his colleagues were being taken out and assumed, quite correctly, that the new Moriarty was responsible.  He needed leverage against me.”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock snapped, “but you said there was nothing that could be used against you.  What kind of leverage would he find in an antiques shop?  If he was willing to commit assault to get it, he must have been certain it was there.”

Mycroft said nothing.  Sherlock imagined possibilities and calculations whirling in his mind like a swarm of bees – blurringly fast and meticulously ordered.  At last, Mycroft said, “Nothing.  I have no weakness associated with Mr. Garrideb’s shop.”  His eyes flickered.  “Unless…”

“What?”

“You.”  The swift frankness of Mycroft’s response caught Sherlock off-guard.  “Didn’t I tell you, brother mine?  Your loss would break my heart.”

“Ugh,” Sherlock grimaced.  “Disgusting.  I’ve changed my mind – don’t touch the sweets.  You’re saccharine enough as it is.”

“Pity,” said Mycroft.  He glided to the chair on the other side of the coffee table, sat, and selected a fork.  He nudged a profiterole onto the plate and stabbed the prongs in deep, squeezing cream from the center.  “It’s all the better when it’s at your expense.”

Sherlock was about to retort when footsteps mounting the stairs caught his attention.  His heart leapt; he knew that steady, solid tread.  John.

“Sherlock?” John called.  “Mrs. Hudson said you were… ah.  Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled nastily.  “Dr. Watson.  What a delight.”

John made a noncommittal sound.  Crossing to the sitting room table, he saw the tea tray.  A gleam of amusement came into his eyes.  “Diet not going well, Mycroft?”

Sherlock grinned and sipped his tea.  Mycroft shot John a withering glare, but John paid him no mind.  He looked meaningfully at Sherlock’s plate.  “You need to eat something.”  

John strode into the kitchen before Sherlock could reply.  There was a briskness in his step, a buoyancy that shook years off his countenance.  Sherlock busied himself with his tea, hoping the steam rising from the cup would account for his flush.  Judging from Mycroft’s weary expression, it was a futile effort.  

“Oh, by the way,” John called from the kitchen, “did I leave Rosie’s baby bag here?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said hoarsely.  Clearing his throat, he repeated, “Yes.  It’s in your chair.”  

When John left the previous evening, Sherlock had retreated to his mind palace and busied himself filing away every conceivable detail he could recall from the kiss.  The warm rush of John’s huffed breathing slotted into place beside the panting exertion of a run through London streets and the quiet sighs Sherlock had caught so long ago, lying utterly still and silent in his bed, straining to hear John in the bedroom above.  The tensing of John’s forearms under Sherlock’s fingers joined the clamp of intertwined fingers they ran from the police.  It had taken hours of meticulous work to sort through all the sensations.    

Sherlock hadn’t noticed the bag until early the next morning.  He had nearly tripped over it when he cleared the sitting room table for the tea tray.  

He cleared his throat.  “Where is Rosamund?”

“She’s with a sitter for the day.  Mary’s got a shift at the clinic.”

“Ah.  Well.”  Sherlock eyed John’s armchair from across the room.  The pink polyester casing and handle of the bag protruded over the edge of John’s Union Jack pillow.  

There came a thump of cupboard doors closing and the clatter of cutlery.  “Do you keep any food here, Sherlock?  Anything besides biscuits and tea?”

“Mrs. Hudson brings up food.  Sometimes.”

“Of course.”  John emerged from the kitchen and crossed to the front door.  Opening it, he called down the stairs, “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Out,” Sherlock said.  “Flirting with Mr. Chatterjee.”

“I saw her before I came up.  She might still be…”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice warbled up the stairs.  “Yes, John?”

“Could we have a little more food up here?”

“Has Mycroft eaten all the profiteroles?”

Sherlock snickered.  Mycroft, glaring, muttered, “There is a conspiracy at work here.”

“No,” John called back.  “But it’s Sherlock.  He needs something bland.”  Sherlock began to protest, but John’s silenced him with a look.  

“Oh, John,” Mrs. Hudson fretted, “I’m not—”

“Not our housekeeper, I know,” John called back.  “But Sherlock has nothing resembling bread up here and I think a little toast would do him a world of good.”

“I wasn’t aware the doctor had two infants,” Mycroft said in a stage-whisper.

“Shut up,” Sherlock spat.

“Oh, all right,” Mrs. Hudson said.  “Just this once.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said.  Leaving the door ajar, he returned to the sofa and took a seat beside Sherlock.  With a smile that did not reach his eyes, John said, “Any reason for the social call, Mycroft?”

“Oh…”  Mycroft shrugged, poking at the crumbs on his plate.  “Just sharing a meal with my dear little brother.”

“Really.”  John glanced at Sherlock dubiously.  “I thought it was because of the Moriarty business.”

Sherlock gaped at him. Mycroft’s knuckles whitened around his fork.  John tilted his head with a frown.  “What, you’re surprised?  That bloody ‘miss me’ video played on every screen in England.  Who except you has that kind of control?”

“Not many people,” Mycroft hedged.  

“Right.  So, you rescued Sherlock from exile with the video.  Not long after, we run into that Sylvius bloke.”  John looked at Sherlock.  “You said he was part of Moriarty’s old organization.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed.  

“Bit of a stretch, as far as coincidences go,” said John.  “Moriarty’s old partners are coming to London, looking either to confront or join the new one.  You weren’t just getting Sherlock off the hook with the ‘miss me’ video.  You were announcing yourself as the new Moriarty.”  He looked Mycroft in the eye and tilted a smile.  “Weren’t you?”

Mycroft drew back as if to study John from a different perspective.  “You surprise me, Doctor.  I am not easily surprised.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said John.  “I seem to do it fairly often.”  He was quiet for a moment, clasping his hands in his lap.  Then he said, “I know you’re busy being Moriarty and all, but I thought you would do me a favor, given the, ah.  Circumstances.”

Mycroft smiled and scrunched his nose, derisive.  “And this favor would be…?”

“Keep an eye on Mary,” said John.  “I don’t trust her.  She’s dangerous.”

“Marvelous deduction, if a little late,” Mycroft sneered.  “She shot Sherlock six months ago.”

A muscle jumped in John’s jaw.  Eyes narrow, he nodded.  “Yeah.  Took me a long time to sort that, I know.”

“Some might say a little too long,” Mycroft retorted.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed.

“You have a point, Mycroft,” said John quietly, “and I won’t argue that I fucked up, but what did you do?  You could have intervened at any time, but you held back.  Why?”

“Sherlock wouldn’t—”

“That’s enough,” Sherlock interjected, avoiding John’s eye.  “We can’t go back and change the past, so it’s pointless to argue about it.  We _can_ keep our sights on Mary now, and remove her if she… if she becomes a danger to John or Rosamund.  Do you think she presents a threat, John?”

John looked down at his clasped hands.  “I… don’t know about myself.  But she loves Rosie.”

“In the Watson fashion, I believe that translates to violence,” Mycroft said coldly.  

John tensed, entwined fingers tightening like a vice around each other.  His face became utterly devoid of emotion.  Fury rose in Sherlock as he scrambled for coherency.

“Yoo-hoo!”  Mrs. Hudson’s greeting was accompanied with a rap on the door.  “I’ve brought toast and ginger ale to settle your tum, Sherlock.”

John stood and swept around Sherlock to take the plate and bottle from Mrs. Hudson.  “Thank you.”  His voice was blank, mechanical.  

Mrs. Hudson cocked her head.  “Is everything all right?”

“No,” Sherlock said.  “Mycroft is still here.”

“Oh, dear.”  Mrs. Hudson cringed.  “Well, you’ll have him out soon enough, Sherlock.  I would love to stay and chat, but I really must be down to the bakery…”

“It’s fine,” said John.  “Thank you.”

Mrs. Hudson hesitated, darting a wary look at Sherlock.  He nodded once.  He didn’t trust himself to speak without shouting.  Mrs. Hudson dithered until John offered to escort her out.  

  The moment the door closed, Sherlock rounded on Mycroft.  “Get out, _brother mine._  Your presence is making me nauseous.”

“No, that would be the cocaine withdrawal,” Mycroft said, but he set down plate and fork and, taking his umbrella in hand, rose.  “I had best be off.  Only before I go, Sherlock, I should let you know about the gala.”

“Well?” Sherlock demanded.  “Stop wasting my time.”

  “The Morcar Museum is hosting a gala to celebrate its grand opening,” said Mycroft.  “There are many priceless pieces on display, one of which is a chair of the Mazarin Collection.  You will see it today, if you’re industrious.”

“Please,” Sherlock sneered, “you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“In any case,” said Mycroft, “I am attending the gala with Lady Smallwood.  She would like very much to see you.”

“Why?  I loathe all that boorish nonsense.  Rubbing elbows with Lady Smallwood’s crowd is your lewdest fantasy, not mine.”

Mycroft raised one hand in farewell as he drifted toward the door.  “Consider it a favor to me.  I have been quite busy attending to the mess you left behind with Moriarty’s organization.”

Sherlock stood and followed him to the threshold of the flat.  “Then perhaps you should start getting _results_ and stop letting all the murderous ones find me.”

He slammed the door in Mycroft’s face before his brother could respond.  Pivoting on his heel, he stalked away from the door, eager to rid himself of the sound of Mycroft’s lumbering tread as he descended the stair.  

Sherlock was brought up short by the sight of John.  The doctor was seated on the sofa, head bent, gaze vacant.  A teacup and saucer tilted precariously in his lax grip.  Steam wafted out of the hot drink, curling into a thin wisp.  Reluctantly, Sherlock went to his side and ghosted his fingers over John’s shoulder.  John tensed; tea lapped over the rim of the cup.  

“Careful,” said Sherlock.

John blinked and shook his head.  The China rattled as he set it down.  “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Mycroft is a meddling arse,” Sherlock said.  

“Yes,” said John, a smile twitching across his lips and faltering an instant later, “but he has a point.  I—I should have never let myself put it out of my mind.  What I did.”

“John.”  Sherlock sat, leaving a handspan of space between John’s left thigh and his right.  He yearned to close that distance, but something held him back.  “I need your help on this case.”  John’s unreadable eyes found him and he heaved a sigh.  “Besides, I’ve worked with hundreds of people who have wanted to deck me.  And I’ve been in my share of fights.  You did nothing I haven’t managed before.”

John’s face tightened and Sherlock knew he had missed the mark.   _Bit not good._ He scrambled to change the subject.  “I’m going to investigate the rest of the chairs today.  I have the addresses – I only need to see them and inspect the legs for more GPS devices.”  He paused, letting the words sink in before repeating the old adage.  “Could be dangerous.”

John mouth stretched into something vaguely resembling a smile.  “That’s our lot, isn’t it?”

Sherlock grasped at the word _our_ and held it close, covetous.  “It rather is.  Will you come?”

John smiled wearily.  Gone was the brisk, buoyant younger man of minutes ago.  Now, John looked… tired.  Worn thin.  An impulse to close the scant distance between them seized Sherlock – to hold and warm, to feel vitality surging beneath his hands.  His fingers bit into the sofa’s upholstery.

“Yeah,” said John at last.  “Yes, of course.”

Then he jabbed one finger in the direction of the tea tray.  “But first, you have to eat a little toast.”

 

-

 

Sherlock and John stopped first at Craig’s flat in Vauxhall to give him the GPS.  Standing at the front door, Sherlock strained to see over Craig’s shoulder, searching for a glimpse of Toby.  Craig rolled his eyes, scratched the side of his nose, and called for the dog.

As Sherlock knelt, scratching Toby behind the ears, Craig turned the device over in his hands.  “Looks fairly standard,” he muttered.  “I can probably set up a tracer to track the signal, if there are other devices you’re looking for.”

Sherlock looked up from Toby to ask, “Can you track the signals to their receivers?  We know where the GPS devices are – we need to find the people responding to them.”

Craig shrugged.  “I can give it a go.”

“We’ve accounted for two chairs,” said Sherlock.  “At most, there should be four more signals of this kind in the city.  So, four receiving signals.”

“Like I said,” said Craig, “I’ll give it a go.”

Sherlock and John departed the Vauxhall flat to investigate the first of four addresses.  As their taxi sped toward Marylebone, Sherlock stared out the window, anticipation thrumming through his veins as the city sped past.  He felt ready for anything - any puzzle, any nemesis.  They had triumphed over Negretto Sylvius and Ioane Sala.  With his brilliance and John’s courage, they were ready to tackle the case.  

A flicker of a smile snagged Sherlock’s attention.  He peered into the reflection of John in the passenger window and whirled around, afraid that he had missed the genuine article.  

It was real:  John was smiling.  Noticing Sherlock’s stare, he put his forefinger to his lips and turned his head.  He seemed unable to repress the grin.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s just…”  John chuckled.  “You really love that dog, don’t you?  Toby.”

“Ah.”  Sherlock felt his face warm.  “Well, I.  I’ve always… liked dogs.”  He fiddled with an imaginary speck of lint on his trouser leg.  “We had a dog when I was small.  An Irish Setter.”

John’s smile shifted from amusement to curiosity.  “Oh?”

“His name was Redbeard.”

“A pirate’s name.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock studied John’s face as fragments of insight pieced into a deduction.  “Mycroft told you about my childhood ambition.”

“Yeah.”  John looked a little abashed.  “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Well.  Mycroft has divulged much worse about me over the years.”  

John’s smile wilted.  Sherlock knew he was remembering the days before the Fall, when Mycroft had traded Sherlock’s secrets for Moriarty’s.  Granted, the whole incident had been orchestrated by Sherlock and Mycroft, but Sherlock doubted John saw it so simply.  John was a soldier – even to a victorious end, he would never betray a comrade.  

“I didn’t mean to…”  Sherlock trailed off, the excuse crumbling on his tongue.

“Don’t bother,” said John.  He said nothing more for several minutes.  When he did speak, the softness in his tone caught Sherlock off-guard.  “You can tell me those things, you know.”

“What things?”

“Things about yourself,” said John.  “About Redbeard, about how you wanted to be a pirate.  About… anything, really.”  One hand slipped from his lap and rested on the seat between them.  “I want to know these things about you.”

The cab lurched to a halt.  John’s hand slid back to his lap, clasping the other.  

“Here we are, gents,” said the cabbie.  

They paid the fare and bade the cabbie to wait.  As he jumped onto the street, Sherlock called on a reckless impulse, “Come along, First Mate Watson.”

A moment of stunned silence – and then John laughed.  “Aye aye, Captain.”

 

-

 

The Mazarin Chair in Marylebone had been purchased for the private gallery of a wealthy socialite.  She was out for the day, but her short, bespectacled PA assured Sherlock and John that they were welcome to peruse the gallery.

“Ms. Brackwell is one of London’s foremost collectors,” he bragged in nasal tones as he led them down the corridor to the gallery.  “She is considering branching into  paintings…”

The corridor opened into a white-walled gallery.  Sections of raised floor displayed desks, chairs, side-tables, and more.  Sherlock mentally catalogued Chippendale side-tables, Paul Storr tureens, Regency desks, and even a Qing Period jar.  Ms. Brackwell was certainly prolific, but she had no concept of specialty.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said the PA, beaming.  

As he strolled out, Sherlock marked no less than seven cameras attached to the ceiling, their lenses angled to capture every movement in the gallery.  They would have to be quick.  He scanned the area, located the Mazarin Chair, and bounded over to it.  He dropped to his knees and began collecting data.  

“Hurry up,” John muttered.  

Sherlock frowned as he skated his fingers over the chair legs.  The legs of the chair in Sylvius’ flat had been molded in a rough, walnut texture.  These were perfectly smooth.  Carefully tipping the chair so it balanced on its back legs, he felt the bottoms of the front legs for the catch to open them.  Nothing.  With a scowl, he set to work on the back legs.

“Sirs!”  The PA shrieked from the doorway.  For all he was a small man, he was quick on his feet; he must have rushed to the security cameras, seen what was happening, and rushed back in less than a minute.  “You cannot—you can’t _do_ that!”

“There’s nothing here, John!” Sherlock exclaimed.  “There was a compartment in the leg of Sylvius’—”

“Sirs,” the PA bellowed over him, “I _will_ phone security!”

“Oh, hell!” Sherlock snarled.  He stood, dropping the back of the chair so its legs rattled against the platform.  The color drained from the PA’s face.  “There’s nothing here!  This has been an utter waste of time!”

“You’re certain?” John asked.

“Of course I am,” Sherlock snapped.  His thoughts raced, trying to pick out a common thread that connected the facts.  “Sylvius’ chair had a device, this one doesn’t, Nathan Garrideb’s didn’t.  Where is the pattern?   _Oh._ ”  He looked at the chair – at the smooth, unmarked legs.  “ _Oh!_ ”

“Sherlock,” John said, “we need to go.  You can explain everything in the cab.”

“But then it loses its effect!”

“Sirs, I am phoning security now!”  The PA pulled out his mobile phone and shook it above his head; he was too excited to care that Sherlock was no longer touching the sodding furniture.  “Get!  Out!”

John grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve.  “I promise I’ll be impressed in the cab, alright?  Let’s just get out of here before we’re arrested for getting fingerprints on… posh bloody chairs.”

Sherlock relented, shot a death glare at the PA as they passed, and hustled after John.  Half-way down the corridor, John smothered a snicker – then burst into giggles.  Sherlock’s lungs strained as he tipped into great, snorting guffaws.

Back in the safety of the cab, Sherlock and John came down from their laughing fit long enough to direct the cabbie to the next address.  Shaking his head, John wiped his forehead with a hand.  

“Well.  Was that or was that not a complete waste of time?” he snorted.  

“No,” said Sherlock, “it wasn’t.  John, that chair and Nathan Garrideb’s chair had smooth legs.  The one at Sylvius’ flat was treated with some kind of mold to texturize the legs.”

“So… the chairs with textured legs have GPS devices,” John surmised.

Sherlock nodded.  “Exactly.”

“But why would they need to do that?” asked John.  “The people tracking them are using the GPS signal to find them.  They can’t see the legs until they get there.”

“True,” Sherlock conceded with a frown, “that remains unclear.  But the pattern persists.  If we keep searching, the reason for the different textures might come to light.”  

John sighed and leaned back against the seat.  “Well, I’m ready for anything.  Let’s crack on, shall we?”

 

-

 

With three chairs left to investigate and daylight waning, Sherlock and John returned to Baker Street to plan their next move.  The Morcar Gallery would be closed and tightly-guarded until the gala opening in the evening.  Sherlock was tempted to break in and examine the chair purely to spite Mycroft, but with so much to do in a few hours, he decided to wait.  He consoled himself with the promise that he would be monstrously rude to Lady Smallwood when the time came.

In the meantime, Sherlock and John turned their attention to the address furthest afield.  A wealthy, retired couple in Bray had purchased a chair for their personal collection.  John very practically suggested they phone to save time, but it was all for naught; the moment Ms. Stock answered the phone, Sherlock knew he would have to go and see the chair himself.  

“I _said,_ ” he fairly shouted into his mobile phone, “does your chair have _smooth legs_ or _bumpy legs_?”

“Oh, my!” Ms. Stock said, giggling in a manner entirely unsuitable for an eighty-year-old.  “Why on earth are you asking after my legs!  Cheeky little boy!”

“I am _not_ —”  Sherlock cut himself short with a glance at John.  The doctor was seated in his armchair, elbow propped up with his fist pressed to his smiling mouth.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes and mouthed ‘shut up,’ but John’s grin only widened.  

“Ms. Stock,” he resumed shouting, “is Mr. Stock less hard of hearing than you?”

“What, Dougie?” Ms. Stock cackled.  “He is Mr. Wilmer!  We’re a scandalous pair, we are!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes heavenward.  Eventually – through much shouting on Sherlock’s part and snickering on John’s – they arranged to rush out to Bray and see the chair for themselves.  

They needn’t have bothered.  After over an hour of suffering public transport to Bray – John having refused to take a cab – Sherlock took one step into the quaint brick home, stared for less than a second, then whirled around and stalked back out.  He narrowly avoided colliding with John, who managed to exchange just enough pleasantries and spin the right excuses to avoid having tea with a pair of scandalous seniors.

“Thanks for that,” John groused, shoving his hands deep in his jacket pockets and leaning against the bus stop bench.  An errant breeze ruffled his silver-blond hair, giving him a charmingly roguish look.  Sherlock’s fingers itched to smooth the strands back into place.  

“You’re better at all that nice nonsense,” said Sherlock.

“So sham it,” John replied.  “I’ve seen you do it.  You’re a natural.  It’s bloody creepy.”

Sherlock’s lip curled.  “Too much effort.”

“Lazy sod,” John grumbled, but he was smiling.

They had a few minutes still to wait for the bus.  Sherlock found his attention drifting to their surroundings – the cozy houses, the tidy lanes, the sprays of ivy climbing walls and shrubs peeping through garden fences, lush and budding with spring.  There was something pleasing about the scene, but it didn’t feel quite right – like slipping into a fine coat, only to realize the shoulders were too tight.  

“I wouldn’t pick Bray,” he muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said.  John arched an eyebrow and, chastened, he confessed, “I don’t see why Mr. Wilmer and Ms. Stock chose Bray to retire to.  It’s far too… constricting.”

A smile pulled at the corners of John’s mouth.  “You’d never leave London, I bet.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “I wouldn’t leave it _soon,_ but…”  He trailed off, pondering, and watched the smile slip from John’s face.  “London is _the_ city, yes.  The perfect cesspit of criminality and vice.”

“But you could fathom leaving it,” said John.  “One day.”

Again, Sherlock shrugged.  “Never gave it much thought.  Frankly, I didn’t think I’d make it to retiring age.”

John’s lips twitched, as if he was trying to recapture the smile, but the effort was halfhearted.  “Well.  You might.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said.  John huffed and Sherlock tossed him a smirk.  “I’ll plague you for a while yet.”

A hiss and a squeal of brakes announced the approach of the bus.  It rounded a narrow corner and rolled to a stop, sagging low to the ground as the doors swung open.  Sherlock climbed aboard with John in tow.

Evening approached as they rattled back into London, planning their next move.  Two chairs left:  one in Chelsea, the other at the Morcar Museum.  John was adamant that they go together at all times.

“I know this time it was harmless,” he said, pointing out the bus window.  The village of Bray swept past, idyllic and oblivious.  “But the other two times, we had Sylvius and Sala to deal with.  Odds are that there’s more danger waiting.”

“I doubt there will be any danger at the gala,” said Sherlock.  “If Lady Smallwood is attending, Mycroft will have ensured tight security.”

John’s eyebrows rose.  “What, she gets the royal treatment?”

“My brother has a special… fondness for Lady Smallwood.”  Sherlock cringed at his own words.  He had taunted Mycroft for not having a ‘goldfish,’ but to imagine his brother in any goldfish-related entanglement had the same effect as sticking his fingers down his throat.  

“Didn’t think Mycroft was capable of that.”

“Well.  When I say ‘fondness,’ I mean the sort of regard a sloth has for its tree branch.”  A shudder trickled down his spine and John snorted.  “In any case, Lady Smallwood will have to be content with second place.”

“And first place is…?”

“Cake.”

The pair dissolved into giggles, drawing wary looks from the other three passengers.  Their delight was cyclical, looping around and feeding into itself.   More than once, they quieted only to catch each other’s eye and start all over.  No doubt they looked a pair of madmen, but Sherlock didn’t care one whit.  

On the second bus ride toward Paddington, John said, “Chelsea first?”

Sherlock drummed his fingers against his lap and looked to the horizon.  Over the looming skyline of London, the sun set amidst billowing streams of smog, burning through vivid streaks of violet and rose.  His phone buzzed with a text alert, and he reached into his pocket with a scowl.  

_Morcar Museum’s opening gala has begun.  Where are you?_

_Piss off,_ Sherlock typed.  He sent the text, deliberated, and sent another:   _On my way._

_Do hurry.  Alicia regrets that she hasn’t thanked you for the Magnussen incident._

_Disgusting,_ Sherlock texted.  

_I assume you’re referring to your shooting a man in the head and not my use of Lady Smallwood’s first name._

_You assume wrong._  With a violent jab, Sherlock sent the text and stowed the mobile back in his pocket.  John gave him a questioning look and he sighed.  “Mycroft.”

“Figured as much,” said John.  “Care to be more specific?”

“Mycroft is nauseating.”

“Right.”

They subsided into companionable silence as bus stops rattled by and Sherlock plotted the downfall of London’s public transit system.  At last they rolled into the bus bay of Paddington Station.  John consulted his mobile.  

“Shit,” he muttered.

Sherlock turned, maintaining his pace as they cut a path through the crush of commuters.  “What is it?”

“The sitter.”  John’s thumbs moved with painstaking slowness across the screen.  “I thought I’d be back sooner, and she’s got schoolwork.  She’s anxious to get to it.”

“Can’t she do that and sit at the same time?” Sherlock asked, peevishly.  “Rosamund will just… sleep through most of it, I assume.”

John chuckled.  “So, the posh boy genius knows nothing about infants.  That’s a comfort.”

Sherlock blinked; he felt as if something had shorted out in his brain.  “What?”

John looked up from his phone with a lopsided grin.  “Babies and the universe, is that it?  The irrelevant topics.”

“No,” said Sherlock, “what did you call me?”

“What, a genius?”

Sherlock shook his head, but before he could utter the words _posh boy_ , John dropped his gaze back to his mobile and swore.  “Damn.  No, she’s really got to get back to her studies.  Could we run back to Chiswick?”

“No,” said Sherlock.  He clenched his teeth, staunching a flow of declarations he knew he would regret:   _I don’t want to see that house.  I don’t want to see the life you’ve made in Chiswick._  

“The gala will be over by the time we get there and back,” he amended, “and we’ll have to wait for the museum to open.”  He shook his head.  “No, I have to go tonight.  You go back to Chiswick.  I’ll deal with the gala.”

John shook his head, jaw set.  “No.”

“It won’t be like the last few times,” Sherlock said.  “It’s a highly public event, and the security—”

“Nope, that’s not good enough,” said John.  “Every time we think we’ve taken all the right precautions, some nutter slips through the cracks and wreaks havoc.  I need to keep an eye on you.”

Sherlock bristled.  “I’m not a child.”

“No,” said John, “but you forget your own safety when you’re on a case.  Which… isn’t fine, but it’s manageable when I’m around.  That way, you have someone to shoot back when the nutters shoot at you.”  He pursed his lips.  “Or offer you poisonous pills, or try to strangle you, or threaten to cut your throat…”

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock groused.  “You’ve made your point.”

“So, we go together.  If we hurry, we can make the gala with time to spare.”  A wicked grin tugged at John’s lips.  “Look at it this way.  You can spruce up.  Put on some sheik suit and meet Lady Smallwood in style.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Be serious, John.”

“I am!” said John with theatrical surprise.  “Dead serious.  I don’t have a humerus bone in my body.”  He paused and lifted his eyebrows.  “Get it?  Medical joke.”

“Ugh,” Sherlock groaned, “stop.  Please.  I’m begging you.”

John subsided instantly and looked away, the tips of his ears turning pink.  The facts clicked into place:   _Blown pupils, flushed skin, averted gaze.  Me, begging._

Sherlock followed John’s lead and looked away.  

“Well,” he said, voice thin, “I suppose I’d better tell Mycroft we’ll be late.”  He retrieved his mobile phone and unlocked the screen.  Speaking as though to himself, but leaving no room for John to mishear, he added, “And I can find something… suitable.  For the gala.”

John looked at Sherlock from the corner of his eye.  “Right.”

 

-

 

Sherlock and John agreed to meet at the Morcar Museum in a couple of hours, giving John time to attend to Rosamund and Sherlock time to prepare.  Sherlock’s thoughts churned as he unbolted the door to 221 and climbed the seventeen steps to the flat.  He had to put together the perfect outfit… Spencer Hart, or Dolce & Gabbana to soften his bony frame into _slim_ …

He swept into the sitting room, shoulders hunched to slip off the Belstaff—and stopped.  Rosamund’s baby bag sat in John’s chair, nylon handle peeping over the arm.  A corner of blanket protruded from inside the bag, meaty and pink.  The zipper was caught in the felt.  

Crossing the room, Sherlock reached for the bag.  The zipper held fast, but came free with a sharp tug.  Pink fuzz caught in its teeth.  He pulled the blanket out of the bag and it fluttered into a pool on the upholstery.  Eyes flicking across the pink expanse, he noted _dried snot, drool, tears—_

Sherlock stilled with a sharp inhalation.  Divots from a small pair of hands had been worn into the fabric with repetition.  An image coalesced in his mind’s eye:  little arms flailing… pale, slender fingers knotted in the felt…

The blanket slipped from Sherlock’s fingers and he clasped his hands to his mouth, feeling his gorge rise.  

_Oh, no._

Sherlock fumbled in his pockets.  The mobile phone slipped from his fingers and clattered on the floor.  A cursed hissed between his teeth as he bent to retrieve it.  Clumsily, he tapped on the screen, navigating to John’s number.  The phone rang twice and went to voicemail.  John was still on the Tube, unreachable in a labyrinth of concrete and steel.  

Sherlock rang off, sent a text, and returned to his contact list to find another number.  Heart hammering, he put the call through.  A contact photo filled the screen:  a sweet, smiling face.

She picked up on the first ring.  “Sherlock.”

“Mary,” he said.

A noncommittal hum.  Wind whistled over the line, harmonizing with the rumbling undercurrent of traffic.  She was in a busy part of the city, but above it all.  A ship’s lookout perched in the crow’s nest.  

“I’m a bit busy right now,” said Mary.  A metallic snap illustrated her point.  “Can you make this quick?”

“I know what you’re doing.  What you’ve been doing.  To everyone.”  Sherlock set his teeth, worked past the lump in his throat.  “To Rosamund.”

The other end of the line was silent; even the perpetual hum of city life seemed to dwindle.  Then: “You can’t know what it’s like.”

“What _what_ is like?”

“Loving,” Mary began, but a tide of emotion choked her and rushed down the line, dragging Sherlock into its thrall.  She drew a ragged breath.  “Loving Rosie.”

“You have an interesting way of showing it,” Sherlock spat.

“This from a self-proclaimed sociopath?  That’s cute, Sherlock.”  A second metallic snap cut through her words.  “Now, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to get going.  Work.”

“You don’t have to do it,” said Sherlock.  “You can stop.  Stop trying to do this and put it all behind you.”  He paused, scrabbling for a foothold.  “Think… think of Rosie.  Think of John.”

A laugh – cold, hard, rising in the high scream of wind.  “Spare me the melodrama.  We both know the score where John is concerned.”

“Rosamund—”

“Is _mine,_ ” Mary hissed.  “I will _never_ give her up, Sherlock.  You can do whatever the hell you like with John, but you will never take Rosie from me.  I’ll kill you first.”

The statement hung between them like toxic miasma.  It was perfectly logical that Mary would hate Sherlock.  But hearing her confirm it struck a blow.  

“Mary,” said Sherlock, “don’t do this.  Please.”  Then, spinning a half-formed suspicion into speech, “You can’t be the next Moriarty.”

“I don’t have to be the next one.  I’m going to be something else entirely.  Something better.”  A musical note brightened her voice; a nod to a madman’s spark of genius, long after it had reduced to ashes.  “You were too slow, Sherlock.  Ta ta.”

“No—”

She rang off, plunging Sherlock into the quiet of the flat.  There was no time to lose.  Sherlock raced for the stairwell.  The chill night wind lashed him as he ran along the pavement, searching the gloom for the headlights of a cab, a motorbike, _anything._

He fired off a text to Mycroft:   _Get your best security on Morcar Museum NOW.  SH_

At last a cab broke through the darkness, careening down the street with a clear intent to pass him by.  Sherlock bolted into the street, waving his free hand and shouting.  The vehicle screeched to a halt and the cabbie emerged, swearing profusely.  

“Morcar Museum,” Sherlock bellowed, drowning out the cabbie’s complaints.  “Get me there in ten minutes and I’ll pay you double.”

The cabbie subsided with a scowl and climbed back into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him.  Sherlock clambered into the backseat and lurched as wheels squealed against pavement, bulleting them down the street.  Sherlock fished out his mobile phone and made one more call.  

The third ring was cut short by a click.  “Mr. Holmes?”

“Get to Morcar Museum in Westminster.  Quickly.”

“What is it?  What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain everything later,” Sherlock said, “but you must hurry.  It’s a matter of life and death.”

 

-

 

At any other time, the glittering opulence of Morcar Museum would have been a marvel to behold.  With sweeping archways, jutting spires, and bulky stone pillars, the building defied the trappings of modernity in favor of the Victorian flair that had distinguished London in centuries past.  

Sherlock was blind to the grandeur as he sprinted through the entrance and into a wide corridor, following posted signs and the faraway murmur of a crowd.  A security guard shouted as he bolted past, but the cry was lost in distance and the wild thump of Sherlock’s pulse in his ears.  His lungs burned.  Sweat beaded on his brow.

The corridor ended at a massive archway, doors thrown wide to admit the crowd.  Sherlock bolted through and stopped, shoulders heaving.  Heads turned at his entrance, but Mycroft’s disdainful expression was nowhere to be seen.  

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”  The voice was clear and brisk, but not unfriendly.  Sherlock turned to see Lady Alicia Smallwood coming to his side.  A modest black dress rippled over her and a black fur stole was wrapped about her shoulders.  She extended a gloved hand and he took it, keenly aware of his clammy palms.  “So lovely to see you again.  I had begun to fear you would not make it.”

“My brother…”

Lady Smallwood pursed her lips.  “He cancelled just before the gala began.  He’s quite a busy man.”

“He’s—he’s not here?”

“No.”  Lady Smallwood sighed.  “I know he’s a genius, but really.  He can be a complete pillock about some things.”  She looked at Sherlock askance.  “I apologize if I’ve alarmed you.”

“You haven’t,” said Sherlock.

“Come and see the pieces with me,” said Lady Smallwood.  She slipped her hand into the crook of Sherlock’s elbow and lead him through the throng.  The artworks were arranged in neat rows cordoned off by delicate chain links.  Moonlight poured through great bay windows, washing marble, wood, and paint in a silver sheen.  “I never thanked you for the business with Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“Oh.”  Frankly, Sherlock hadn’t cared about Lady Smallwood’s dirty laundry when Magnussen threatened to reveal Mary’s secrets.  “You are… very welcome.”

A set of furniture came into view, half-concealed by a marble statue of a couple in a tender embrace.  Sherlock strained his gaze as they drew slowly nearer, but he could not make out the details of the chair.  Perhaps he had been mistaken.  If Mycroft wasn’t here, there was no reason for Mary to strike.  Everything would be fine.  

“…assist in his endeavors to repurpose the organization,” said Lady Smallwood.  “Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said hastily.

She gave him an unimpressed look.  “Your brother wants my help with the Moriarty network.  Once everything has settled down, of course.”

Sherlock stared at her in shock. In all his life, Mycroft had never so much as shared a ginger nut from the tin he kept squirreled away beneath his bed.  Now he was preparing to share a former criminal agency.  

“My God,” Sherlock said.

“It was quite… startling,” admitted Lady Smallwood.  “But I will help in any way I can.  Oh, look – the Mazarin Chair.  Exquisite, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s mobile phone began to ring.  John.

“Where are you?” he said by way of greeting.

“On my way,” said John.  Babbling in the background preceded his question, “What’s going on, Sherlock?  Why did you want me to bring Rosie?”

“Take her to Baker Street,” said Sherlock.  “Leave her with Mrs. Hudson and come to the gala.  Hurry.”

“Sherlock.  Tell me what’s happening.”

“Later,” said Sherlock.  “I’m—I’m coming back to Baker Street soon, actually.  Just stay there with Mrs. Hudson and Rosamund.  This chair is a dead end.”  A half-lie; Sherlock had yet to see the chair, but Mycroft’s absence meant Mary had no target.

_Unless…_

Several things happened at once.  A text alert chimed and Sherlock moved his phone from his ear to see, John’s voice fading as the gap yawned wide between them.  The text was from Mary.

_Too slow, Sherlock._

“Mr. Holmes?” a voice called, echoing off of marble floors and soaring archways.  Numbly, Sherlock craned his neck to see to the doorway.  Alexander Grant saw him and began hobbling across the room.  

“Sherlock!”  John’s voice, tinny with fear.  Sherlock put the phone back to his ear.  “Sherlock, _what is going on?_ ”

“It’s Mary,” said Sherlock.  “She’s—”

He fell silent, eyes tracking a flicker of movement.  As it slowed, it resolved into a bright, red dot, dancing down the wall and skittering across the floor.  It skated a straight line toward Sherlock, climbed up his legs, and centered on his chest.

“John,” he said.

The gunshot came first.  Sherlock staggered.  Then came the gasps, the screams, filling the hall with their discordant symphony.  Clamoring, mindless terror filled the air as people stampeded for the door, knocking into each other, pushing each other aside to clear a path.  Sherlock swayed.  His mobile tumbled out of his hand and clattered to the floor.  John’s voice was so small, so far away… and then it was gone, lost in a metallic crunch as a woman ran past, crushing Sherlock’s phone beneath her heel.   

 

 


	10. CHAPTER NINE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part of the double-update! The next chapter will come on Saturday, 12/23. 
> 
> I'm Zingiberis on Tumblr.

 

 

John had never run so fast in his life.  

As he tore down the corridor of Morcar Museum, memories played a dusty film reel in his mind.  Running into the fray in Maiwand, only to feel the sniper’s bullet punch through his body armor and burrow into the meat of his shoulder.  Running after Sherlock that first night, and all the mad and glorious days and nights that followed.  

Running – stumbling – toward a crumpled form on the pavement, knowing he was too late.

An icy hand gripped John’s heart, squeezing so tight he feared it would burst.  If he failed Sherlock a second time…   

_Too slow, too slow—_

The corridor opened into a gallery of sprawling mayhem.  Aisles had been arranged to provide clear paths with the artwork on either side, but the chains used to cordon off the pieces were crooked in some places, twisted along the ground in others.  Near the center of the vast hall, a marble statue lay tipped on its side, chunks littering the floor around its ruined face.  Black-clad men and women roved the uneven aisles, herding people into clusters like dutiful sheepdogs.  Crying, sniffling, and shrieks pierced the air.  

John searched the gallery, pulse thumping like a drumbeat in his ears, jaw clenched to the point of pain.  

And _there_ – the familiar figure stood near an enormous bay window, swarmed by a cluster of police.  John hastened toward him.

“Mr. Grant,” he called.  His voice was swallowed by the commotion.  He shouted, “Mr. Grant!”

The figure turned, and John drew up short.  In the short time he had known Alexander Grant, John had never once seen the man distressed.  Now, his face was a bloodless mask of shock.

“Dr. Watson,” he said.  “How did this…”  He trailed off, at a loss for words.

“Where is he?” John demanded.  His sharp tone made Alexander start.  “Where is Sherlock?”

Alexander waved toward the bay window, where a mass of police officers huddled.  John rushed past Alexander.  Snappish exchanges filtered through the haze of panic:

“…an ambulance!”

“Seems a bit pointless now, don’t you think?”

John could no longer hold his tongue.  “Let me come through!” he barked.  The two officers standing nearest to him jumped and assumed stiff-backed postures as he approached.  Seeing him, one put a hand to his shoulder, stalling him.  

“Sir, you can’t—”

“Sod off,” John snarled.  He shoved past, raising his voice above the din, “Let me come through!  I’m a doctor!”

Never before had John so appreciated the command those three words held over a crowd.  People stepped aside, instinctively obeying his command.  A path opened.  Terror gripped John.  

An sea of scarlet spread across the floor.  Moonlight poured in from the window – broken, cracks spidering across the glass – and washed the blood to black.  

John’s hands stilled.  His mind went blank.

“John.”  A rasp, a rumble – _alive._

John whirled around as Sherlock stumbled toward him.  An orange blanket had been draped over Sherlock’s shoulders, but it slipped as his hands reached out, fingers twining in the fabric of John’s jumper.  John’s own hands clasped Sherlock’s elbows, seeking warm skin, a thumping pulse.  He held on and drew slow, stuttering breaths, using Sherlock to anchor himself to reality.  

“You’re,” he croaked.

“John.   _John._ ”

John raked his eyes over Sherlock and startled at the spatter of crimson staining his white button-up shirt.  Releasing Sherlock’s elbows, John ran his palms over his chest, panic engulfing him.  

“The wound—”

“John—”

“Where is the _wound_?” John demanded.  No amount of pressure could stop the blood welling between his fingers and crusting in the creases of his palms.  Pooling in the sand, clotting in the tracks of his boots, washing pink down the drain.  The fetid stink as it ripened under the Afghan sun.

“ _John!_ ”  Sherlock’s cry broke through the haze.  John blinked as long, shaking fingers threaded with his.  “The blood is not mine.  Do you understand?  Not.   _Mine._ ”

“What,” John mumbled.  Sherlock squeezed his hands until the bones creaked.  “It’s not…  Then who…?”

A shadow passed over Sherlock’s face and he turned toward the broken bay window.  A crumpled shape lay in the center of the blood, covered by a sheet.  John’s hands slipped free of Sherlock’s and he strode toward it.  He stopped inches away from the edge of the pool, gaze rooted on a corner of the sheet.  Fingers peeked out, the nails neatly manicured.  

“Lady Smallwood.”  Sherlock was beside him, radiating warmth.  How close had he come to being the one beneath that sheet?  Clearing his throat, John looked to Sherlock.  The detective was staring blankly at Lady Smallwood’s draped form.  “She was standing right beside me, John.”

A frisson of worry shook through John.  “Sherlock, are you…”  

Sherlock continued as if John hadn’t spoken.  “The bullet broke through the window and struck her in the left temple.”  He tapped the side of his head to illustrate.  “She slumped, and I—I didn’t think, so I.  Caught her.”  His eyes flicked to the sheet and back to John.  “I didn’t want her to fall down.”

“Sherlock.”

“Do you remember that ridiculous cowboy movie you made me watch, John?  I might have enjoyed the plot, predictable as it was, if not for those grossly inaccurate shooting scenes.  All spurting blood and flying bodies.”  Sherlock’s voice was flat but his words were fast, faster, faster still.  “The mass and surface area of a bullet means there is almost no energy transfer when it strikes a body.”  One hand rose, fingers fluttering at the center of his chest.  “No big spurt of blood.  No flying through the air.”  

John was seized by an impulse to drag Sherlock out of the gallery, out of the Morcar Museum, and rush him back to Baker Street.  Safe within the walls of that haven, they could breathe.  Sherlock could process everything, John could watch over him, and when they were—

_“Ready?”_

_“Yes.”_

—they could face whatever danger awaited them.  Together.

“Let’s get out of here,” said John.  “You look like—”

“I’m fine.”

“You _look_ ,” said John, “like you could use a new shirt.  That one’s destined for the bin, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock glanced at the police officers.  “Lestrade will want some of his people to accompany us.  As guards.”

“Sod them,” John said.  “We’re going back to Baker Street, and I don’t want anyone who isn’t you, me, Rosie, or Mrs. Hudson so much as straightening the bloody door knocker until we’ve had some rest and…”  He paused, curbing an urge to look in the direction of Lady Smallwood’s body.  “…gotten all this sorted.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed, latching on something over John’s shoulder.  The full mouth flattened into a line.  

“You’ll need to amend that notion sooner than you thought,” he said.

“Mr. Holmes.”  Alexander Grant sounded more slightly more composed than he had been minutes ago.  “We need to talk.”

John had had enough.  He rounded on Alexander with a glower.  “We’re going.  We’ll discuss this with you tomorrow.”

Alexander set his jaw and narrowed his eyes at John.  “I need answers now.”  His glare shifted to Sherlock.  “You brought me here – you owe me that much.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock cut him off with a nod.  “Very well.  I’ll explain everything when we’re back at Baker Street.”

Sherlock swept past before John could argue, crossing to the officers standing around Lady Smallwood’s body.  Donovan peeled away from the crowd and stepped forward to meet him.  They exchanged words and Donovan frowned, shaking her head.  Sherlock strode toward the corridor leading out of the museum with his coat billowing behind him.  John hastened to follow and Alexander brought up the rear, keeping pace despite his limp.  

“You can’t just leave!” Donovan called after them.  “Wait!”

 

-

 

The journey to Baker Street passed in silence.  Alexander stared intently out the window, fingers balled into fists on his lap.  Neon lights of lamps and shop fronts sailed across the darkened glass and illuminated the hollows of his face.  He looked… weary.  Stretched thin.  

A clinging mire of confusion and fear fogged John’s mind.  What if the danger pursued them even now?  What if their enemies followed them to Baker Street – what if they were already there?  Mrs. Hudson and Rosie would be helpless.  

John leaned back and rested his head against the seat.  He glanced at Sherlock and froze; Sherlock was staring at him with unabashed intensity.  His open coat and the undone first button of his shirt offered a glimpse of his clavicles – tantalizing, but so, so sharp.  John licked his lips and looked out the window, keenly aware of Alexander’s presence.  

At last, the cab turned onto Baker Street and stopped outside the flat.  Sherlock slipped out and John followed, desperate to see his daughter, to hold her and keep her safe.  They ran up the stairs, unbolted the door, and hurried inside.  

The door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat was bolted shut.  John knocked with a heavy hand and called, “Mrs. Hudson!”

There was a scuffle, a peal of laughter – _Rosie –_ and the bolt clicked.  The door swung open and Mrs. Hudson was standing before him, Rosie propped against her shoulder.  She smiled a little nervously.

“Is everything all right, then?” she asked.  

“Not exactly,” John said.  He stepped forward and took Rosie into his arms.  As Mrs. Hudson removed the towel from her shoulder, he noticed a yellowing stain of spit-up crusting the fibers.  “Sorry.  Was she…?”

Mrs.  Hudson scoffed and put her hands on her hips.  “Well, she threw a proper fit when you ran out, but she eventually settled down.  Bit fussy about feeding.  I nearly had to beg her to take the bottle.  Now, John, I’m no expert – Mr. Hudson and I were far too busy to consider children, what with the cartel and me not wanting to, you know, ruin my figure.  But I thought, shouldn’t she be breastfeeding?  So I checked the Google and it said—”

“I know,” John interrupted.  It was a minor miracle that John had had the presence of mind to pack the milk.  He could remember little beyond grabbing Rosie, ordering a cabbie to rush them to Baker Street, and dumping a wailing infant into Mrs. Hudson’s arms before racing back out the door.  “The milk is Mary’s.  She gets it ready for days when she’s got a shift at the clinic.”

Mrs. Hudson frowned.  “What, with one of those ridiculous pumps?”

“John!” Sherlock barked from the stairwell.  “Come on!  We have more important matters to discuss than _breast milk_!”

John’s ears heated, but he took the proffered escape route and made for the door.  Mrs. Hudson stepped into his path.  

“John Hamish Watson,” she said.  “Oh, don’t look so shocked.  Of course I know your middle name.  Sherlock keeps notes all over the flat, you know, and once in a blue moon he’ll deign to let me dust…”

“Did you have something to tell me?” John prompted.

Mrs. Hudson narrowed her eyes at him.  “Yes, and it’s this:  if you plan on going back to Mary when this is all said and done, I want you to go up there, have your little talk, and then _leave_.  You’ve hurt Sherlock for too long and I’m putting my foot down.”

John gaped at her.  “What are you…”  

“Don’t you play the fool with me, John.  I saw the bruise.”  John blinked, absorbing the words like a physical blow.  “I know Sherlock acts like he’s above it all, like his big brain is the only thing that matters.  But that boy is all emotion.”  She gave John a reproachful look.  “You know that.”

“I… I’m not…”

“He builds walls to protect himself,” Mrs. Hudson said.  “And you’ve gone and climbed right over, haven’t you?  So.”  Briskly, she wiped her hands down the front of her apron, as if washing her hands of him.  “If I go up there later and find Sherlock under some black cloud of depression, well.  I’ll know who to blame, won’t I?”

John schooled his expression to indifference.  “I’ve got to go.”

Smiling sweetly, Mrs. Hudson held open the door for him.  “Goodnight, John.”

With a dozing Rosie cradled in his arms and his mind a maelstrom, John climbed the stairs to 221B.  Sherlock and Alexander were seated before the fireplace.  As he entered the sitting room, Sherlock spoke: “The cot you brought is set up in your old room.”

“Oh,” said John.  “Ta.”  As he moved toward the stairs, Rosie stirred, face crinkling in displeasure.  A foul and familiar smell made its way to John’s nose.  “You know, you two can get on with it.  I need to get her cleaned up, then down for the night.”  He paused, realizing the implication of his words.  “If that’s fine with you, Sherlock.  That we… stay.”

Sherlock looked at him, bemused.  “That’s why I set up the cot.”

“Um, right,” said John, feeling foolish.  He gestured at the stairwell.  “If you need anything, just shout.  Except you’d better bloody not shout, because…”  He nodded at Rosie and, exceedingly uncomfortable, bolted for the stairs.  The murmured exchange between Sherlock and Alexander faded as John reached his old room and closed the door behind him.  

As John took a moment to compose himself, the familiarity of his old bedroom settled over him like a comforting blanket.  He propped Rosie against his shoulder and reached for the wall, muscle memory guiding his hand to the light switch.  Light flooded the room.  Save for the baby cot, little had changed: his bed was made, his nightstand still stood at its side, and the curtains at the window were closed.  It was as if he had only been gone a day, not three months.    

John shouldered off the baby bag and rooted around for the cooler.  As he readied the bottle, Rosie roused and crowed with displeasure.  Feeding her proved an exercise in futility; she refused the bottle, pursing her lips and glaring at him.  She was scarcely three months old, but already she had a stubborn streak and a temper to match John’s own.  

“We’re a fine pair, aren’t we,” he mumbled.   

Putting Rosie to bed proved another battle entirely; she fussed and squirmed in the cot, heaving great, hiccupping breaths every time John turned toward the door.  High-strung from the eventful evening, she wailed to be held and wailed when John conceded.  Once or twice she looked ready to work into a proper tantrum, waving her arms feebly, tensing, and clasping them to her chest with red-faced anguish.

“Come on, darling,” he sighed.  “Please, go to sleep…”

Rosie fought with every bone in her little body, but she was only an infant – after half an hour of hellish protest, exhaustion claimed her.  Gingerly, John placed her in the cot, turned on the baby monitor, and turned off the lights.  He closed the door with infinite care and padded softly down the stairs.  

He found Sherlock alone in the sitting room, a cup of tea clasped in his hands.  He had changed into the old t-shirt, thin sweatpants, and dressing gown ensemble.  

 _Did Alexander see him like this?_ John wondered with a jab of envy.  The next second, shame was washing over him.   _I’m a sodding idiot._

Sherlock nodded wordlessly to the table beneath the cow skull, where a second cup sat on a saucer.  John picked up the cup and took a sip – earl grey with a hint of lemon.  Soothed by the taste and with warmth seeping through his bones, he sighed.   “You’re a marvel.”

Sherlock hummed and took a sip of his tea.  “I’ve deduced as much.”

“So,” said John, taking a seat in his armchair, “what did Alexander have to say?”

“The usual client outrage.  Why was I so callous, what were my intentions, et cetera.”

“Well?” asked John.  “What were they?”

“I told him I wanted to confirm that he had nothing to do with Moriarty’s organization.  He was at Morcar Museum when Lady Smallwood was shot.  That rather effectively removed him from Mycroft’s suspicions.”

“Hadn’t Mycroft already done a background check on Alexander?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “but given that Sylvius and Sala were able to slip through Mycroft’s net, he was beginning to suspect an inside job.  I told Alexander I had to remove him as a suspect.”

Something niggled at John – a gap in the picture Sherlock had painted – but he was too exhausted to push for details.  Instead, he took a bracing sip of tea and prepared for the worst.  “And the shooter was…”   _Calm down, Watson.  You need to protect Rosie.  You need to protect Sherlock._  “It was Mary, wasn’t it.”

There was a shadow in Sherlock’s eyes as he looked up at John.  “Yes.”

John’s fingers tightened around the handle of his teacup.  Mary had pointed a gun at Sherlock.   _Again._  Sherlock hadn’t been her intended target, but she must have considered… must have felt a twinge of temptation, tightened her finger on the trigger…

“Fuck.”  John wanted to hit something.  He wanted a drink.  “She could have killed you.   _Fuck_.”

“She’s gone to ground for now,” said Sherlock.  “Mycroft’s agents have Baker Street secured for now.  You can rest easy.  Tomorrow, we can send Rosie and Mrs. Hudson to a safe house.”

“And then?” said John.  “We, what?  Confront Mary?  We don’t know where she is, what numbers we’re against.  I don’t even know if I can—”  

The words caught in his throat.  A memory came to him, unbidden:  Mary cradling a newborn Rosie to her breast, a dazzling smile glowing through the sweat and exhaustion.  The mother of his child.  

John glanced up and found Sherlock watching him with a sad, soft look.  He stood and swept around his chair, striding into the kitchen.  His teacup and saucer rattled together as he set them in the sink.  

“We can make plans tomorrow,” he said, “once you’ve had time to… process everything.”  He crossed to John’s side and paused.  Biting his lip, he rested a hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed.  Sherlock was close enough to touch – Sherlock was touching him – and Sherlock was, despite all, _alive._

“Goodnight, John,” said Sherlock.  

“‘Night,” said John, his voice a murmur.  

Sherlock’s hand slid from John’s shoulder.  The detective padded toward his room, dressing gown whispering around his frame.  He looked as if he was made of smoke, too frail to cling to reality on his own.  John imagined a terrible wind ripping through Sherlock, guttering him out, carrying him away for good.  He stared into the dregs of his tea and waited until Sherlock’s bedroom door closed with a soft click.

 

-

 

_He was sprinting down the corridor of Morcar Museum, lungs burning, heart pounding.  The gallery opened at the end of the gallery, showcasing wealth and splendor and, in the center of it all—_

_“Sherlock!”_

_Sherlock whirled around, eyes wide, lips parting on a shout.  “John, don’t!”_

_The roar of a gunshot.  The splintering of glass as the bay window shattered.  Blood blossomed from Sherlock’s chest, soaking through his white shirt with preternatural speed.  He crumpled to the floor and John screamed—_

A scream followed John into consciousness, but after a moment of frozen terror, he realized it was not his own.  He bolted upright and ran down the stairs toward the sound.  Sherlock’s door was unlocked; John threw it open, and it struck the wall with a bang.  

A thin bar of light from the street lamps outside fell across Sherlock’s form.  Sherlock was asleep, eyes clenched shut, fingers twisted in the bedclothes, body was as taut as a bowstring.  John took a step cautious step forward and Sherlock flinched, face convulsing as if in pain.  

“Don’t,” Sherlock cried.  

Setting his teeth, John strode to the side Sherlock’s bed.  It was unwise to carelessly wake someone from a nightmare, particularly if that someone had skills in boxing and _Baritsu_.  But John was drifting in and out of his own nightmares, trapped in a no-man’s land where common sense had no meaning.  Heart thundering, he reached a hand out, held it suspended above Sherlock’s sleeping form.  

A jerk, a whimper – and, in the voice of a man being flayed open, Sherlock shouted, “Mary, no!   _John!_ ”

John abandoned caution and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders, shaking them roughly.  “Sherlock!  Sherlock, wake up!”

Sherlock twisted and thrashed beneath John, still entangled in the nightmare.  Bracing himself, John reached for his flailing arms.  Their hands slid together, fingers finding spaces between fingers and curling into iron grips.  Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he gasped.  

“John!” he shouted.   

“Are you awake?”

Sherlock shook his head, eyes half-wild.“Sh-she… she shot you—”

“She didn’t, Sherlock.  It was a nightmare!”

Sherlock held onto John like a lifeline.  “She killed you, John!  She sh-shot you and made me watch while you bled out—”

John unthreaded his fingers from Sherlock’s and jerked them away.  He had one knee braced on the bed, supporting most of his weight.  Leaning forward, he placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face and looked him squarely in the eye.  

“Mary,” he said, enunciating each word, “did not kill me.  She didn’t kill you.  We are both here at Baker Street.”  His voice hitched, words scraping past a lump in his throat.  “We’re both _alive_!”

Sherlock’s struggles ceased and his gaze cleared.  His mouth fell open, shaping John’s name, and John tipped forward and crushed his lips down against Sherlock’s.  

Sherlock stiffened; John wrenched himself away.  “Oh, God, Sherlock.  I’m so sorry—”

He was interrupted as Sherlock’s arms shot forward, one winding around the back of his neck and the other scrabbling at his side.  Only a day ago, Sherlock had kissed him shyly, closed-mouthed and clumsy.  Uncertain of John’s response, he had proceeded with the utmost caution.  

There was no caution now – only hunger and the drumbeat of Sherlock’s pulse where his wrist pressed at the back of John’s neck, affirming that he was alive.  John climbed onto the bed and straddled Sherlock’s hips.  With an impatient sound, Sherlock dragged John into a bruising kiss.  Their teeth clacked, and the jolt of pain cleared John’s mind.

“Sherlock, wait,” he gasped.  Sherlock tried to pull John back down, but he resisted.  “Right now…”  John chewed on his lip and stared at Sherlock.  Flushed and panting, silver eyes gone coal-dark.  “Right now isn’t a good time.  You aren’t… you aren’t in a good place.”

Sherlock’s lips curved in a sardonic smile.  “John, when have I ever been in a ‘good place?’  When have _we_ been?”

 _Before you jumped,_ John wanted to say.   _Before Mary._

“I want this,” Sherlock said.  His fingers drifted to John’s chest, tracing a path down his sternum.  “I n-need to know she didn’t…”

John understood; the same need hummed under his skin, burning down to his fingertips.  Dropping to one elbow, he angled his head and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.  Sherlock whimpered into John’s mouth, hands skittering down his front, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.   In seconds he was pushing the open shirt off John’s shoulders.  John sat back on his heels and freed his arms from the sleeves.  Sherlock had shrugged off his dressing gown, and John grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and peeled it away.  Sherlock stilled.

“John,” he began, but too late – the oval of scar tissue emerged, silvery in the dim light.  John could only stare.  Strange, how such a small thing had almost ended Sherlock’s life.

John tugged at the shirt, and Sherlock lifted his arms.  With the shirt and dressing gown gone, Sherlock was bare from the waist up.  A puckered line of scar tissue clung from his navel to the base of his sternum like barbed wire.  

 _Emergency laparotomy,_ John’s medical mind supplied.   _Reopened the first surgical wound when the internal bleeding began._  He brought a hand to the scar.  The raised skin and the ridges and valleys of ribs were rough against his palm.  

“She nearly killed you,” John said.  

Sherlock drew a shaky breath.  “Nearly.”

John surged closer, needing to feel the heat of Sherlock’s body, his pounding heart.  Sherlock rose to meet him.  They came together in a rush of winding limbs and panting breaths.  In the flurry, Sherlock’s hands skated over John’s back and down to his arse.  He dragged John toward him and arched up, and those thin sweatpants did little to conceal the hardness there.  John swore under his breath as his own cock pressed at the flies of his trousers.  

“Sherlock,” he gritted out.  

“John.   _John._ ”

John brushed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth with a kiss as his fingers plucked at the drawstring of Sherlock’s sweatpants. The knot unwound and John shoved the sweatpants down, rising on his knees so Sherlock could kick them off.  Licking his lips, John looked his fill.  Sherlock’s cock was flushed and stiff against the hollow of his belly.  His hipbones jutted out, casting shadows on the moonlit expanse of skin.  

John curled one hand around Sherlock’s prick, smearing his thumb over the head.  Sherlock jumped and whined; his hands dropped to the bedclothes and gripped tight.  Precome beaded on the tip of his cock, smoothing John’s strokes.  

“You’re so thin,” John said.  He tightened his grip and Sherlock shuddered.  John’s free hand drifted to his abdomen, exploring the protruding ribs.  Sherlock had always been slim, but a lean layer of muscle had softened his sharpest edges.  The man lying beneath him looked like a wraith.  

Sherlock recaptured John’s attention with a gasp.  “N-not enough, it’s not enough.  I need…”

“Anything.  Anything you want.”

Sherlock gulped for air and pried one hand from the bedclothes to tug at John’s belt.  John slid his hand down to the base of his cock and back up, circling the tip with his thumb. Sherlock shivered and said in a rush, “I need you inside me.”

John groaned and kissed him, fevered and deep.  Sherlock clutched at him, winding long fingers through his hair.  John’s cock jerked in his trousers and he broke away to undo his flies.  Sherlock panted, each breath punching an echo out of him, “John, John, _John_ …”

John shucked his trousers and pants and scrambled back to Sherlock.  Before he could voice the question, Sherlock turned on his side, hiding the laparotomy scar from view as he rooted around in the bedside drawer.  He pressed a half-empty bottle of lube to John.  “Now, John, Christ…”

John’s hands moved of their own accord, accepting the bottle and flipping open the cap.  He was unable to tear his gaze away from Sherlock, who had craned his neck to watch hungrily.     “Please, John.  God, please…”

His tone sent a shiver down John’s spine.  Hands shaking, he squeezed a generous dollop of lube onto his fingers.  Sherlock’s pleas and his own aching arousal spurred him on, and soon he was stretching Sherlock open with a finger, marveling at the crushing tightness, the heat.  He rubbed Sherlock’s inner thigh with his free hand and dipped down to kiss the hollowed stomach, the ridge of a hipbone, the tip of his cock.  Sherlock jumped at the last with such a cry that John worried he had gone too far, but Sherlock only fell back with a squeak of bedsprings and gasped, “More.”

John tried to take his time, but he needed Sherlock now, quickly, and Sherlock’s own babbling demands only urged him on.  After what felt like mere seconds, Sherlock whimpered, clamping down on John’s fingers, and said, “ _Now._ ”

“Yeah.”  John pulled his fingers out and gripped himself, sighing a little with the pressure of it.  As he pressed close, Sherlock lifted a foot, seeking purchase.  John wound his arm around Sherlock’s thigh and lifted until he felt Sherlock’s heel rub the small of his back.  Sherlock’s hips tilted as he braced his weight on his back and lifted his other foot, locking his ankles together.  He settled his arms along John’s shoulders and scrabbled at his back, fingernails scraping sparks down his spine.

And then John was sinking in slowly, slowly—and then quickly, Sherlock’s legs flexing around him, pulling him in with a moan.  John’s breath caught as the tight heat of Sherlock’s body closed around him.  His arm slipped from Sherlock’s thigh to brace against the mattress.  “Jesus Christ.   _Sherlock._ ”

“Hurry,” Sherlock gasped, and winced.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.  “Don’t stop.”

“God, you’re so…”  John shuddered and made a strangled sound as Sherlock clenched around him.  “Bloody hell, give me a second!”

“No,” Sherlock grunted, “no, need you now.”  

Slipping his hands down to John’s forearms, Sherlock gripped them for support.  He dug his heels into the base of John’s spine and arched up, trying to fuck himself on John’s cock, but with scarcely any leverage, all he managed was a feeble thrust.  He fell back with a whine, frustration creasing his brow.

Seeing Sherlock like that – flushed, panting, thwarted – sent animal need surging through John’s body.  He had to get closer.  Had to feel Sherlock’s vitality, make himself a piece of it.  

“Hold on,” he gasped.  Shifting his weight to his right arm, he gripped Sherlock’s hip with one hand and sank in deep.  Sherlock yelped, but the cry twisted into a chant of _faster, harder, John, John._ His back was rigid, his legs locked like a vise.  

John’s fingers bit into pale skin as he pulled back and slammed forward, setting a punishing pace.  Each thrust affirmed the heat of Sherlock’s body and the breath in his gasps, his cries.  Each twitch and clench and clutch spoke of firing neurons, clusters lighting up in a brilliant brain like starbursts.  It was Sherlock – alive and so very, very human.  

John changed his angle for a deeper thrust and Sherlock threw his head back, the line of his neck taut.  The muscles in his arm bunched as he slipped a hand between them to stroke his cock.  His teeth dug into his lower lip; John wanted to steal the cries from those lips, hoard them for himself.  But his body had other ideas – already he could feel the end approaching, tension coiling in the base of his spine and hunkering down low.  

“Sherlock…”

“I know.”  Sherlock’s voice rasped.  “Don’t stop.  Want to feel you to come in me.”

“Fucking hell,” John groaned, and thrust again, again, rough and uncoordinated.  Sherlock was lost in his own pleasure, hand blurring over his prick – and then he stiffened, spurting over his fingers with a sob.  The spasms of his body tightening around John’s cock drove John immediately to his peak and he pushed as deep as he could go and stilled, pulsing into that tight heat, cursing under his breath.  

As they came down, John managed a few feeble thrusts, testing the limits of his sensitivity before slipping out and nudging Sherlock’s legs off him.  Laying down beside him, John drank in the sound of their mingled breathing in the dim room, the heady scent of sex.  It filled him with a sense of security and bone-deep lassitude.

John was distantly aware of Sherlock opening the bedside drawer.  A soft tearing noise, as of a tissue being pulled from the box.  Sherlock laid back and wiped his hands, then wadded the tissue and tossed it on the floor.  Sighing, he closed his eyes.  

A thick, heavy blanket of exhaustion settled over John.  They had been running around all day and the emotional turmoil of the evening had taken its toll.  His eyelids drooped with the promise of rest.

“Sherlock,” he mumbled.  “We should…”

“Later,” Sherlock murmured.  

He turned on his side, facing away from John, and reached back to tug at his arms.  John obliged and snugged up behind Sherlock.  He pressed his nose to the crook of Sherlock’s neck and inhaled.  Beneath the smell of sweat, John found Sherlock’s own scent, concentrated and reassuring.  

“Later,” he agreed.  His eyes slipped shut.  In a very short time, the warmth of Sherlock beside him and the rhythm of their twinned breathing lulled him to sleep.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of Easter eggs:
> 
> 1\. The Morcar Museum is named for the Countess of Morcar, who appears in "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle."  
> 2\. Ms. Stock and Mr. Wilmer, the scandalous old couple from Bray, are named for Nigel Stock and Douglas Wilmer. These two actors played Watson and Holmes, respectively, in a prior adaption of Sherlock Holmes by the BBC.


	11. CHAPTER TEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update again today! I might continue doing two chapters a week until this is over. 
> 
> If you see any mistakes, please let me know so I can correct them. :)
> 
> I'm Zingiberis on Tumblr.
> 
> P.S., TW this chapter for gore.

Very late in the night – or very early in the morning – Sherlock woke shivering.  Sweat slicked his skin and he kicked off the duvet.  The touch of the cool air only made him shiver harder, but at least he was no longer being smothered by a clammy weight.  

The place beside him was empty.  Running a hand over it, Sherlock felt John’s residual warmth bleed into his palm.  He laid back and tried to stop shaking, but it was a losing battle.  A craving gnawed at him, burrowing into flesh and bone like a malignant cancer.  He needed a hit.  He’d had nothing for the past two days – if he had to wait a moment longer, he would go mad.  

The bedroom door creaked open and Sherlock startled.  Craning his neck, he saw John’s small, compact silhouette drift toward the bed on silent feet.  The shape of Sherlock’s dressing gown fluttered around his ankles; the sight made Sherlock’s chest tighten.   

“Sorry about that,” John murmured.  He stopped beside the bed, untied the sash of the dressing gown, and shrugged it off, letting it puddle around his feet.  The mattress dipped as he climbed on, settling next to Sherlock with a sigh.  

“Had to check on Rosie,” he mumbled.  “Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t,” Sherlock choked.  He wanted to leap from the bed and race into the kitchen, to the tile above the kitchen sink.  His last reserves.  

Sherlock turned on his side and draped his arm over John’s chest.  He hadn’t been in aroused moments ago, but the warmth and solidity of John’s body presented an alternative to a hit.  He wriggled closer, feeling his cock thicken against John’s thigh.

“Oh, hello,” John said.  He shifted so they lay face-to-face, one hand drifting down between them.  At the first brush of his fingers, Sherlock huffed in frustration – too light, not enough.  

“John,” he said.  “ _Please._ ”

John chuckled.  “Christ.”  But his hand tightened; Sherlock sighed as pleasure thumped through his veins.  John shifted closer and kissed him, chastely.  Sherlock drew away and scowled.  

“You’re teasing me,” he accused.

“Caught on quick, didn’t you?” John smirked.  

Sherlock responded with a forceful kiss.  John made a high sound of amusement in the back of his throat and Sherlock slipped his tongue between his lips, determined to silence him.  It worked – the pitch lowered into a hum as John opened his mouth, letting Sherlock in.  They kissed deeply as John worked Sherlock slowly, torturously toward his peak.  When he reached it, he came with a shudder, clinging to John’s shoulders.  

“You now,” Sherlock gasped.

John nodded eagerly, shoulders rising and falling with his panting breaths.  “Yes, _God_ , you’re beautiful.  Just…”  He pushed a shaking hand against Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock let himself be pushed, let himself fall onto his back.  John straddled him in a single fluid motion, but there was nothing graceful in the pull of his hand, spit-slicked and squeezing, down the length of his cock.  His free hand found Sherlock’s hip and gripped tightly as he jerked himself.  

“Hurry, John,” Sherlock rasped.  “I want to see it.  The look on your face.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” John hissed.  “Oh, Sherlock, _fuck, fuck…”_ A litany, a prayer.

“Come on me,” Sherlock rumbled.  “I need it, need you to mark me…”

John bit off a curse and groaned, his body convulsing, hips pumping as he spurted on Sherlock’s stomach and chest.  He was glorious - eyes clenched shut, face creased as if treading the line between pleasure and pain.  As his hand slowed, his eyes cracked open.  

“That…”

“Hmm.”  Sherlock dragged his fingers through the mess on his stomach - _me and John both_ \- and lifted them to his mouth.  John’s eyes were dark, fathomless oceans as he watched Sherlock lick his fingers clean.

“You’re obscene,” he murmured.  “You know that, right?”  He squeezed himself one last time, wincing, and slid off Sherlock.  He turned and swung his legs off the bed, still looking at Sherlock over his shoulder.  “Madman.”

“Stay with me.  We’ve got hours yet.”

“Just a minute.”  He slipped out of the bed, leaving Sherlock bereft, and vanished into the bathroom.  He emerged moments later with a damp towel, wiping off his hand as he walked.  Sherlock accepted the towel gratefully and scrubbed himself clean.  

“Better?” John mumbled, climbing in and settling himself at Sherlock’s side.  

“Yes.”

“You’re shaking.”  A note of wakeful alertness.  John’s eyes were intent on him.  “Are you okay?”

“Hmm. Fine.”

It was true.  The craving was still there, but now it only nibbled at the periphery of his thoughts, submerged in endorphins.  Sherlock nestled close and rested his chin atop John’s head.  John’s arms wound around him, tethering and protecting.  He slept.

 

-

 

Sherlock next woke to sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains, bathing the room in its warm, yellow glow.  John was gone, as were the clothes he had strewn across the floor last night.  The space beside Sherlock was cool, the indentation of John’s body long-faded.  Sherlock curled on his side and smoothed a palm over the sheets.  

Minutes later, dressed and clean, Sherlock wandered into the kitchen to find John leaning against the counter with Rosie in his arms.  John looked at Sherlock and away, the corners of his mouth turning down; Rosie, ignoring his presence, sucked contentedly at her bottle.  Silence pressed upon them for a long moment.

“John—”

“Sherlock—”

They paused, each waiting for the other to speak.  Words jostled for priority on Sherlock’s tongue – _I have to tell you about Mary what are you thinking about why won’t you look at me I believe I may be in lo—_

“You first,” he said.

John smiled faintly and glanced down at Rosie.  “Never thought I’d see you this… uncertain, I guess.  It’s disarming.”

“John.”

“Right, sorry.”  The smile hardened into a firm line.  “We have to talk about last night.”

Sherlock crossed his arms, gripping the sleeves of his dressing gown to stop his hands from shaking.  He had chosen the wine-red dressing gown, a white button-up, and dark trousers after much debate, knowing the ensemble would catch John’s eye.  Neatly-pressed black and white wrapped in the color of desire.  

Sherlock turned his head and chewed on his lip.  He felt an utter fool.  

“…think we made a mistake.”  John’s voice struck him as if from a distance – slowly, a building wave gathering speed and power.  He gripped the edge of the kitchen table for support.  His mind flew to the tile not five feet away from John.

“…Sherlock?”  He jumped, jarred out of his thoughts by John’s sudden nearness.  He had been so dazed he hadn’t noticed John round the table and come to his side.  “Did you hear me?”

At that moment, Rosie stirred, her mouth forming a little oval as she yawned.  In Sherlock’s mind palace, a room took shape, bare save for a wooden chest.  Sherlock’s fingers brushed the grain of the lid, clasped, lifted.  A pink felt blanket was folded inside.  

“I have to tell you something,” said Sherlock, desperate to steer the conversation in another direction.  The sensation of being suddenly unmoored, of drifting on an endless, lonely sea with no landmark or stars to navigate by - it made his thoughts churn and whirl.  The deduction peeled away from the tumult like ashes dancing off a fire.  “It’s about Mary… and Rosamund.”

John’s gaze sharpened.  “What?”

“Lay Rosamund down on the table for a moment.  On her back.”

“Sherlock, what are you…”

“Humor me,” said Sherlock.  “I promise I’ll come to the point soon.”

With a dubious glance at Sherlock, John shifted Rosie in his arms and laid her gently on the kitchen table.  The infant wriggled, but otherwise made no protest.  John stepped to the side and watched as Sherlock approached her.  

“Are you familiar with the Moro reflex?”

“Yes,” said John.  “The one where if you simulate a loss of support…”

“…The baby spreads out its arms and legs, slowly retracts them, and cries,” finished Sherlock.  “Presumably, it’s a relic from our tree-dwelling ancestors.  If they fell, they needed something to cling to.”  

As Sherlock spoke, he lifted Rosie into a sitting position, one large hand bracing her arms against her chest while the other hand cupped the back of her head.  Without warning, Sherlock abruptly lowered her, releasing her arms but keeping the back of her head cushioned.  Rosie froze, arms still pinioned in place.  Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

Sherlock looked to John and saw that he had frozen, too.  He was falling, spiraling with nothing to cling to.  

“This supports my theory,” said Sherlock.  He lifted Rosie carefully and gave her back to John, who clutched her to his chest.  Rosie whimpered and he pressed his nose into her hair, inhaling her scent.  “Rosamund’s pink blanket has spit stains and indentations that fit the shape of her mouth.  It also has creases on the edges from hands have been gripping it, pushing it down.”  He mimed the motion and watched the color drain from John’s face.

“You mean…”  John hugged Rosie closer; he looked like he was going to be sick.  “You mean to say that Mary’s been.”  He shook his head.  The next two words were choked:  “Smothering her.”

Sherlock nodded.  “Enough that Rosamund’s reflexes have changed to compensate.  Mary probably pushed down harder than usual once or twice and injured her – nothing broken, because you would have seen that, but enough to make extending her arms painful.”  John dragged in a thread of a breath, shoulders hunched.  Sherlock forced himself to continue.  “I… confronted Mary about it.  I phoned her.  She didn’t admit to it, but… she didn’t contradict me.”

“Oh my God,” John croaked.  He rubbed his forehead, blinking hard.  “Oh my God.  How could she… I thought… I thought she loved Rosie, or-or came as close as she could to.  Jesus.”

“I believe she does love Rosamund,” said Sherlock quietly.  “As much as she can.  I think she loves her so much she knows it’s her greatest weakness.  The biggest chink in her armor.”

“Then why would she…?”

“My theory,” said Sherlock, “is that Mary is either testing the boundaries of her love for Rosamund, or she’s… trying to uproot it.  Tear it out, remove the weakness.  Do you understand?”

“ _No_!” John cried.  Rosie flinched in his arms with a whimper and he rocked her gently, lowering his voice to a croon.  When she had settled again, he raised his eyes to Sherlock.  “I don’t understand why someone would even _have_ a baby if they… if they were like Mary.”

“Whatever her reasoning,” said Sherlock, “we have to prioritize Rosamund’s safety until we’ve dealt with Mary.”

John was about to respond when a sharp rap of knuckles against the front door startled them.  John looked to Sherlock, eyes shining with ferocity.  

“It’s only my brother,” said Sherlock.  John turned his glare to the door, looking like a lion on the hunt, readying himself for the kill.  At last he nodded, but the deadly calm did not leave his demeanor as Sherlock went to the door.  He drew back the bolt and turned the knob.  “Mycroft.”

At the sight of his brother, Sherlock was hard-pressed to keep his composure.  Mycroft looked like he had aged ten years since their last meeting.  His features were drawn and his hands quaked on the crook of his umbrella.  Dark shadows hung under his eyes.  His stare was devoid of the smug gleam Sherlock knew so well.  

Mycroft barely looked like the brother Sherlock knew and despised.  He looked old and weary.  He looked defeated.

There was nothing Sherlock could do but fall back into their routine.  “Mycroft.  Come to nag me about drugs again?”

Mycroft blinked in a dazed way.  “No.  Clearly that isn’t necessary, as you’re three days into withdrawal.”  His tone was devoid of its usual smugness.  “No, this isn’t a social call.  May I?”

He drifted past Sherlock without awaiting a reply and swayed over to John’s armchair, sitting heavily.  Across from them, John looked on, ferocity fading into concern.  

Sherlock took the seat opposite of Mycroft and watched his brother with simmering panic.  A memory bloomed behind his eyes:  cracks spreading over glass, Lady Smallwood pitching forward, blood pouring from her temple.  

It was John who spoke first.  “Do you have any leads on Mary?”

Mycroft’s knuckles whitened around the umbrella handle.  “Not yet.  Mrs. Watson is proving a far more intelligent adversary than I had first anticipated.  We can safely assume that her hacker is James Winter, in which case, they are currently beyond our ability to locate.”

“So,” said John, “you’ve got nothing.”

Fury flashed through Mycroft’s eyes, muzzled and coldly controlled as soon as it arose.  “I have her husband and infant child.”  His gaze slid to Rosie and away.  “Although I can see from no less than three suffocation attempts that her regard for little Rosamund _Mary_ Watson may be unpredictable.”

A muscle jerked in John’s jaw, but he didn’t rise to the bait.  “Did you learn anything about Mary?  Anything at all?”

“We were able to dig up a little of her history before meeting you,” said Mycroft.  He reached for the briefcase sitting at his side and drew out a stack of papers.  Sherlock accepted it and began rifling, eager to fill the gaps in his knowledge of Mary Watson.  

His focus tripped over a paragraph and for the space of a breath he froze, reading intently.  He looked up to John.  “She worked for Moriarty for at least two years.”

John’s eyebrows rose.  “So?”

“So,” said Sherlock slowly, “she was there that night, John.  She was at the pool when we first met James Moriarty.  She had her sights on us the entire time.  I would stake my life on it.”

“Jesus,” John muttered.  Rosie stirred in his arms, sensing his distress.  “Mary’s been ready to shoot you, what… three times now?  Four, if you count the empty house.  Fuck _._ ”  He lowered his gaze and shook his head.  “I’ll stop her.”

“I fear you’ll have to wait in the queue,” said Mycroft coolly.  “She threatened Sherlock and murdered Alicia Smallwood.  Suffice to say, I outrank you when it comes to a need for vengeance.”

John uttered a harsh sound that might have been a laugh.  “You know what, Mycroft?  Fine.  I’ll do whatever I can to help you catch her.  After that…”  He trailed off, the bravado vanishing as he looked to Rosie.  The baby snuffled and turned toward his chest, lips puckered.

“She’s hungry,” noted Sherlock.  

“Yes,” said John, “she wants her… Um.  I have to feed her.  Be right back.”

The moment he was gone, Mycroft sighed.  “We can’t trust him.”

Sherlock rounded on his brother with a glare.  “I trust John more than anyone.”

“Clearly.”

Sherlock fought not to fidget as his brother’s scrutiny passed over him.  Deduction was not a switch that could be flipped on or off – it was a constant process of gathering, sorting, and assimilating.  At its most quiet, Sherlock’s own deductive ability was white noise on the periphery of his senses.  But Mycroft’s brain was leagues ahead of Sherlock’s in every conceivable way.  If Sherlock’s deductions were white noise, Mycroft’s were a storm – a churning, raging din that never ceased.  Perhaps that was why Mycroft favored the quiet of the Diogenes Club so.  

Mycroft had known what had happened between Sherlock and John the moment he set foot in the flat.  Possibly earlier.

“John deserves to be a part of this,” Sherlock persisted, setting aside those thoughts.  “Mary’s hurt him more than anyone.  She’s his wife.”

“And the mother of his child,” Mycroft said.  “Dr. Watson wants Mary removed from his life, but the moment he considered the consequences, he lost his conviction.  The notion of his child growing up without both parents unnerves him.  No doubt because his own father was an absent drunkard.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock snapped.  Mycroft raised his eyebrows but let the subject drop.  

“The most we can expect of him is to stand by while Mary Watson is dealt with.”  Mycroft’s fingers threaded around the crook of his umbrella.  “I spoke of uprooting Moriarty’s old organization, but that won’t be enough with her.”  His eyes hardened into flecks of granite.  “I am going to obliterate her, Sherlock.  I am going to _erase_ her from existence.”  

John emerged from the kitchen, a new bottle in hand.  “That certainly sounds… final.”

“Do you have any qualms, doctor?”

“Nope.”  John’s tone was brisk.  “Just skepticism.  I know you’re the British government, but can you actually do that?  Remove someone from the world and act like they never existed?”

Mycroft’s lips twisted into a vicious smirk.  “Usually, such a thing requires an incredible amount of time and paperwork.  It’s far more efficient to assassinate someone and shuffle your justification into nonspecific government dealings.”

“How economical,” said John, dryly.

Mycroft ignored him.  “But in this case, Mary Watson’s greatest strength – her hidden identity – is also a crippling weakness.  If Mary Watson never existed, erasing her is quite simple.  Even more so if we assume she abandoned her previous life entirely.  No loose ends.”

“Convenient,” said Sherlock.

“That part is simple,” said Mycroft.  “This next one is less so.”

He reached back into his briefcase and withdrew a second sheaf of papers.  Without looking in John’s direction, he raised the sheaf in offering.  John rolled his eyes, strode forward, and took it.  He scanned the first page, puzzlement fading as understanding dawned.

“This is… some kind of birth certificate?”

“Yes.”  Mycroft nodded.  “Modified for your special use and a hundred times more valuable than the standard, but, ultimately, yes.”

John flicked through the pages with narrow-eyed scrutiny.  “And it’s for…”

“Rosamund Mary Watson,” said Mycroft.  “Or whatever you prefer to call her, once this ordeal is sorted.  Once we have removed Mary Watson, you will fill out the form and return it to me.  I’ll see that everything is properly documented.  If the mother no longer exists, neither does her child.”

“You’re proposing giving Rosie an entirely new identity,” John surmised.

“Yes,” Mycroft repeated with a touch of asperity.  “I thought that was perfectly clear.”

John studied the form for a moment.  “Who’s Evelyn Ferrier?”

“The mother,” said Mycroft.  “Terribly tragic, but she perished in a car crash days after your daughter was born.  She’s buried at Highgate Cemetery, though I would advise you not to dig under the headstone.  You won’t find much.”

“Glad there’s a line somewhere,” John sighed.  

Mycroft’s lips pulled into a deep frown.  “I apologize if your conscience gives you grief, but this charade was less simple to arrange than you might imagine.  I hope you understand.”

John nodded wearily.  “Right.  Thanks.”

“When this is over,” Mycroft reminded him, “fill out that paperwork and return it to me.  Then you and your daughter can start your lives anew.”

“Just like that,” John murmured.  “It seems too easy.”

“Finding Mary and bringing her in will be the most difficult part,” said Sherlock.  “After that, I think a little ease will be a welcome change of pace.”

John looked at Sherlock askance.  “Never thought I’d hear you say you wanted a good case to end.”

“Well.”  Sherlock looked between the two of them – his brother and his dearest friend – and knew that to challenge Mary would be like no case he had undertaken before.  This was no game, no mental labyrinth in which Sherlock could lose himself.  “This isn’t a case.  It’s a hunt.”

Sherlock’s mobile pinged out a text alert.  Thankful for the reprieve, he glanced at the screen.  

“It’s Craig,” he said.  “He’s managed to track the receiver.  He wants us to meet at his flat.”

John looked dubious.  “Sounds suspicious.”

“I appreciate your caution, doctor,” said Mycroft, “but I’ve taken thorough steps to ensure Mr. Everill’s suitability as an ally.  He can be trusted.”

“You say that,” John replied, “but you just admitted you’d underestimated Mary.  What if you’ve underestimated Craig?”

“John,” said Sherlock, “Craig has a dog.  He can’t be evil.”

John stared at him.  “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

“God.”  John sighed.  “Fine.  But I’m bringing my gun.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He flicked his gaze to Mycroft, expecting a sneer.  But Mycroft was simply staring at his hands, still clasped on the umbrella handle.  One of his thumbs brushed the knuckle of the other in a parody of a caress.  Sherlock looked away.  

“We should talk to Mrs. Hudson,” said John.  “Let her know what’s happening.  She could go away for a few days, maybe stay with her sister.  Might be safer.”

At the point, Mycroft closed his briefcase and stood.  “Out of the question.”

“But—”

“Mrs. Hudson’s sister is common knowledge, John,” put in Sherlock.  “Winter has probably already gathered information on her.  In fact…”  He glanced at Mycroft, silently questioning.

Mycroft nodded once.  “Already taken care of.  Ms. Anna Sissons has been called away from her home in Winchester to attend conference on nuclear physics in Edinburgh.  A mogul from America is looking for a research facility to endorse.  She may be retired, but Ms. Sissons is quite keen.”

“You’ve got everything very neatly wrapped up, haven’t you,” said Sherlock.

“I do try.”

“An exotic dancer and a nuclear physicist,” John mused.  “Wonder what growing up in that family was like.”

“The usual sibling rivalries,” said Sherlock, dismissive.  “Unimportant.  Mycroft?”

“My people will arrive shortly to collect Mrs. Hudson and take her to a safe house.  And speaking of safe houses…”  He paused and looked down at Rosie.  “I’m sorry, Dr. Watson, but you will have to say your goodbyes now.  We must move your daughter to a secure location.”

John flinched as if he’d been slapped.  He clutched Rosie closer to his chest and she whimpered, his alarm feeding into hers.  “You can’t.  You can’t take her.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.  “Dr. Watson.”

“ _No_.  I’m her father.  I’ll protect her.”

“John,” said Sherlock, softly.  “You can’t fight Mary and protect Rosamund at once.”

“I…”  John trailed off and looked down at Rosie.  His face became stony.  “Mycroft, you swear you’ll look after her.”

“Of course,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock rose from his chair and went to John, possessed by a need to soothe, to gentle and touch.  He stopped short of the last and shoved his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown with his fingers biting at the insides of his palms.  “Mycroft’s safe houses are next to impenetrable.  Rosamund couldn’t be anywhere safer.”

John’s jaw clenched and Rosie gave a quavering cry.  The urge to reach for John made Sherlock’s arms shake.  

But John was a soldier and, as he had done so many times before, he soldiered on.  He looked Mycroft straight in the eye and nodded.  “Right.  That’s that, then.”

“My people will be here in minutes to collect your daughter and Mrs. Hudson,” said Mycroft, glancing at Rosie as if worried John would expect him to hold her.  “They will be taken to my home, where they will wait until they can be transported to separate safe houses.  Once the issue with Mrs. Watson is resolved, both will be returned to London.”

“Don’t call her that.  The woman I married doesn’t exist.”

Sherlock stared at John in shock as the hope he had so carefully guarded gained substance, like ghosts taking shape from mist.  John was leaving Mary.  He had _left_ Mary.

His fingernails bit further into his palms, drawing a whisper of pain.  Minutes ago, John had called last night a _mistake._ He couldn’t let hope blind him to reality:  that John didn’t want him.

“Duly noted,” said Mycroft, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to the conversation.  He paused and drew his mobile out of his pocket, studying the screen.  “Ah.  Perfect timing.  My people have arrived.  Best collect Rosamund’s things.”

“Right,” muttered John.

In a short time, the four were waiting in Mrs. Hudson’s flat while she packed.  She bustled around with a suitcase in hand, stopping at intervals – kitchen, bedroom, sitting room – to dump items in wish a slapdash efficiency Sherlock found quite admirable.  A relic from her days as a drug lord’s wife, no doubt, she was accustomed to packing the bare necessities with speed.  

When Mrs. Hudson was finished, she stopped before them, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.  “Oh, Sherlock,” she wobbled, “I am afraid for you, dear.  I know I always say I’m not your housekeeper – I’m _not_ – but…”  She trailed off, swallowing.  Sherlock looked to his feet, sentimentality warring with his English inclination to shy away from anything remotely emotional.  

It was John who filled the silence.  “We’ll be alright, Mrs. Hudson.  This will all be over soon, and then you can come back to us.  Don’t you remember?”  He tried for a smile.  “Without you, England would fall.”

Mrs. Hudson sniffled and covered her mouth with a hand.  “I sh-should be furious with you, John Watson,” she exclaimed, “but oh, you’re my boys, you and Sherlock both.  Please keep him safe.”

She crossed the scant space between them and hugged John tightly.  John was motionless for a moment, expression blank, but he quickly recovered and leaned into the embrace, arms occupied with Rosie.  Mrs. Hudson drew away and hugged Sherlock next; he stooped and enfolded her in his arms. Extricating himself, he coughed past the itch in his throat.  

Mrs. Hudson turned to Mycroft, who had taken up a post by the front door to watch the scene with wary contempt.  Clasping the handle of her suitcase in both hands, she mustered a brisk tone that wobbled only a little.  “Well, then.  Let’s be off.”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft.  A pair of dark-suited figures waited in the corridor, as silent and composed as statues.  One stepped into the sitting room and the other led Mrs. Hudson to the sleek BMW parked outside the building.  As the landlady slipped into the car, the first agent looked to John.

“Dr. Watson,” he said, and extended his arms to accept Rosie.  

John froze for an instant, then creaked into motion like the proverbial mountain coming to Muhammed.  He lifted Rosie, kissed her forehead, and murmured something Sherlock could not hear.  Then he handed her over with infinite care.  Her cries of alarm faded as the agent hurried toward the car – then the door closed, silencing her.  John stared at the BMW with unblinking focus.  

Mycroft was the last to depart.  “I will keep you updated on our search for Mary Morstan.”  He turned to go.

“Mycroft.”  John’s voice was hollow.  Mycroft turned back with a questioning look.  “Promise me you’ll keep Rosie safe.”

Mycroft dipped his head in a solemn nod.  “I will.”

“Swear to it.”

“I promise,” said Mycroft, “I will protect your daughter at all costs.”

And without awaiting a reply, he turned and disappeared into the BMW.  The car pulled away from the curb and glided into traffic.  Sherlock and John watched as the sleek, dark form shrank into the distance, then turned a corner and was lost from sight.  

Sherlock turned to John, needing to speak, finding the words stuck in his throat.  John’s gaze was fixed on the corner.  His hands rested limply at his sides.  Only hours ago, those same hands had dragged Sherlock out of a nightmare.  They had anchored him, unraveled him, stitched him back together.

Sherlock brushed his fingers against John’s.  John tensed and jerked his hand away as though burned.

“John?”   Panic fluttered behind Sherlock’s ribs.  “What—”

The shrill ring of his mobile silenced him.  Chewing on his lip, Sherlock fished it out and put it to his ear.  “Craig, we’re on our way.”

“What?” Lestrade’s voice replied, jarring in its suddenness.  “Sherlock, it’s me.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock snapped.  “What do you want?”

Lestrade sighed.  After a beat, he said, “There’s been an… incident.  Canada Waters.  Will you come?”

“No,” said Sherlock tersely.  “John and I are busy.”  Then, with a thin veneer of condescension, “You solve it.  It is the dullest part of London, after all.”

Lestrade’s shout was explosive.  “For fuck’s sake, could you just shut your gob and _come_?  It’s a body.  Fished it out of Surrey Water.”  Another sigh, draining the fury away like pus from an infected wound.  “Just… hurry.  You’ll want to see this.”

Lestrade rang off.  Sherlock stared at the blank screen of his mobile, fear and suspicion congealing in the pit of his stomach.  

“We have to go to Canada Water,” he said.

“What?” John blinked.  “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” said Sherlock.  “But I think it’s connected to Mary.”

And, walking to the edge of the pavement, he raised a hand to hail a cab.  

 

-

 

Sherlock couldn’t say precisely _when_ the realization struck – it must have been a powerful blow, crossing wires, shorting circuits, because the whirring of his mind ground to an agonizing halt.  

The cab stopped at Surrey Water, met by a barrier of police tape, flashing patrol car lights, and a group of officers at the waterfront.  Sherlock opened the door and drifted out in a daze.  A sour taste coated his tongue, clung in the ridges of his teeth.  The officers cast him sideways glances as he pushed through their bustling ranks.  

Anderson was at Sherlock’s side, speaking with deliberate care.  “…not a pretty sight, but we’re fairly certain...  think you can manage it?  Sherlock?”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade called, striding toward them.  The crowd cleared a path and Lestrade beckoned for Sherlock and Anderson to follow.  A covered, unmistakable shape lay on the cobblestones.  Sherlock’s stomach lurched.  

“I’m sorry, mate,” said Lestrade in an undertone.  “But it would help if you could confirm the victim’s identity.  The face…”  He grimaced.  “It’s not in good shape.  He didn’t drown – he was murdered, and the killer wasn’t quick about it.”

“This is too much for him,” Anderson objected.  

Lestrade cast Sherlock a narrow look.  “Will you do it?  We can wait on forensics for the dental records, but frankly, I don’t see the point.  If the victim is who we think it is, his history will be spotty at best.”

“ _Sir!_ ”  Anderson’s voice was verging on shrill.

“It’s fine,” said Sherlock.  He scarcely recognized his own voice.  “Show me.”

“Sherlock!”  John’s voice, just barely discernable above the crowd.   _Oh.  He had to pay the cabbie.  He’ll be cross._

“You’re certain?” Lestrade pressed.

“I do hate repeating myself, Inspector.  Get on with it.”

The look Lestrade gave Sherlock was less exasperated than it was pitying, and it was with a sickening sense of dread that Sherlock watched him pull away the edge of the tarp.  A grotesque mask came into view – scarcely recognizable as human.  The skin was sodden and pale as the belly of a fish, bloated around the cheeks and neck.  A sopping, matted scruff of hair was plastered over a broad brow.  Calculating for the bloating, Sherlock would have been able to identify the man from the dimensions of his face alone.  

But Sherlock couldn’t summon a coherent thought.  The eyes beneath that broad brow had been carved out, leaving behind two gaping holes.  The additional removal of nose and lips forced the dead face into a crude, rictus grin.  

“Wiggins,” Sherlock murmured.

“That’s him?  William Wiggins?” Lestrade said.  In an undertone, he added, “Your old dealer?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, and whirled around and stumbled out of the crowd.  He narrowly avoided knocking John over in his headlong flight.  It was by some twisted sense of grace that he managed to stagger to a public bin before vomiting, sweat springing to his skin as convulsions wracked him.  

“Sherlock!”  A hand came down on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “What is it?”

“Wiggins,” Sherlock said hoarsely.  “The body.  It’s Wiggins.”

“Oh my God.”  The hand slipped from Sherlock’s shoulder.  Rubbing his hand across his mouth, Sherlock stumbled upright.  John was staring back in the direction of the crowd.  The weathered lines of his face had deepened into grooves of pain.  “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said.  The text alert on his mobile chimed.

John’s eyes widened.  “It isn’t.  Of course it isn’t.”

“We have to go,” said Sherlock, holding up his mobile and shoving it into his pocket before John had a chance to look at the text emblazoned across the screen.  He took a step, staggered, and paused.  Shivers skated down his spine.  “Craig texted me the address of the final transmitter.”  

“Sherlock.”  

“If we get the last transmitter, Craig might be able to track its signal to the receiver, which should lead us to Mary.  I think we should wait before involving the Yard.  They could be useful allies in a fight, but if we tell them our plan now, there’s a greater risk that Winter—”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked at John.  “This…”  He coughed, blinking hard.  “This is all I can do.”

John’s mouth worked for a moment, then flattened into a tight line.  He lowered his arm to his side, fingers curling into a fist.  “Right.  Let’s go.”

Sherlock shot a glance toward the crowd of officers.  “Lestrade…”

“I think your reaction bought us time,” said John.  “He’s never seen you so rattled, I’d bet.  He won’t be asking questions for a while.”  He darted a glance at the officers.  “But let’s not push our luck.  Come on, Sherlock.  Lead the way.”

Sherlock’s throat threatened to close.  For all they had shared in the past twenty-four hours, he could not squelch the suspicion that John was keeping him at arm’s length.  Ensconced in the quiet haven of Baker Street, John had been able to set aside his reluctance.  But now, out in the open - seeing Sherlock the consulting detective, the addict, the _man_ \- John was struggling to fit Sherlock’s jagged edges into the order of the life he was trying to make.  Trying to remake after Sherlock had come along and shattered it.  

 _Shut up,_ _shut up.  Focus._  

Sherlock took a proper look at Craig’s text.  A second glance made his racing thoughts stumble in shock.  

“John,” he said, “the last transceiver.  It’s in Nathan Garrideb’s shop.”


	12. CHAPTER ELEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second half of the double update. I apologize that these two are pretty case-heavy, but the next few chapters are more action-packed. :)
> 
> If you see any mistakes, again, please let me know so I can correct them. 
> 
> I'm Ziniberis on Tumblr.

Sherlock and John arrived at Ryder Street to find Garrideb’s Antiques closed, door bolted and windows shuttered.  Without bothering to knock, Sherlock fished a set of picks from his pocket to work on the lock.  John watched, mesmerized, as Sherlock’s fingers flexed and twisted with nimble certainty.  He was snapped from his study only when the lock clicked as the bolt slid free.  The door creaked open and Sherlock stood.

“Wait,” said John, clapping a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder to keep him from dashing inside.  Catching himself, he jerked his hand back, shame twisting in his stomach.  He drew his Sig.  “I’ll go first.”

Sherlock’s throat bobbed and he nodded, stepping aside so John could pass.  John’s hands were steady as he cocked his gun and pushed the door open.  

Chaos lay before them.  Shards of glass and porcelain were strewn across the floor, glittering in the weak light.  Further away, a display case had been overturned, its shattered contents spilled onto the floor.  A shape caught John’s eye and he aimed the Sig, only to realize his target was a grandfather clock.  Springs curled like wiry hairs over the jagged edges of its ruined face.  

John lowered his gun.  “There’s no-one here.”

Debris crunched underfoot as Sherlock walked ahead of John, sweeping his gaze over the mess.  After a few seconds, he pronounced, “Overdone.”

“Think it was staged?”   

“Possibly.  Not enough data.”  Sherlock walked back to the front door and hit a light switch, but nothing happened.  “Power’s been cut.  Whoever did this was either meticulous or took pleasure in frightening their victims.”  

“Or both,” said John.  

Sherlock nodded.  “Or both.”  He was silent for a moment, fingers toying with the dead switch, before turning back to John with a swish of his coat.  “Search for remains – a body, blood, anything.”

“Right,” said John.  

The next few minutes were spent rooting through the mess.  John wanted to open the blinds and let the daylight illuminate their search, but Sherlock cautioned him against it.  “Leave compromising the scene to the Yard, John.”

Thwarted by the darkness, John stayed close at Sherlock’s side, Sig at the ready.  But try as he might to be vigilant, his thoughts were in as much disarray as the shop.  The soldier’s instinct to protect and fight was mixed with thoughts of Sherlock’s fingers working the lock, Sherlock’s fingers intertwined with his, Sherlock’s fingers curling around himself as he gasped in time to John’s thrusts.

A cold wave of shame washed over John.  He couldn’t let himself think of that.  

Sherlock had squatted beside the fallen display case to shine his mobile’s torch over the mess.  “John, look.”

John rounded Sherlock’s side and hunkered down to peer at the evidence.  Amidst the glittering shards and wood splinters, dark spots blotted the floorboards.  They were as black as tar in the torchlight, but John recognized them immediately.

“Blood,” he said.

“Could be Nathan Garrideb’s,” Sherlock said.  He stood and moved the torchlight, revealing a dark trail winding through the chaos.  It meandered into the back room of the shop and was swallowed by encroaching shadows.  Sherlock followed the trail, picking his way through the debris with care, and John followed.

They found the back room in the same state as the front, save for one change.  Decimated antiques and mangled furniture limbs had been cleared in the center of the room to form a perfect circle, into which the trail of blood ended in a congealing puddle.  The scent of iron and rot was thick in the air, clotting in John’s nose and on his tongue.  Old memories slithered into the edges of his mind and nudged him toward another time, another place.  As Sherlock’s torchlight roved over the blood, a small, oblong shape came into view.  It was a severed finger.

“Not enough blood to be fatal,” John said, blinking past a red haze.  “He might still be alive.”

“Might be,” agreed Sherlock.  He looked in the direction of the pointing finger.  With supreme care, he crossed to the other side of the circle and knelt among the debris.  He stood moments later and turned to John, holding a sealed envelope.  The beam of torchlight made the paper gleam like starlight in the gloom.  “John, look.”

 John lowered his gun.  Heart racing, he stepped around the circle to squint at the letters curling across the paper.  

_To John._

It was with a dead thud that John recognized the handwriting – of course he did.  It adorned his marriage certificate.

“It’s Mary’s,” he said.

“Yes,” confirmed Sherlock.  He slid his fingernail under the sealed flap of the envelope and tore it open.  Plucking out a square of paper, he let it fall open as the torchlight shone upon it.  

“ _’Dear John,_ ’” he read, “ _’I am not writing this letter to make demands.  You and I both know you won’t simply give me my daughter because I ask.’_ Well, Mary may be many things, but deluded certainly isn’t one of them.   _‘Instead of making a demand, I am going to make a promise.’_ ”  Sherlock faltered for a moment as his eyes quested over the sheet.  

“What is it?” asked John.  “What did she say?”

“ _’I promise,’_ ” Sherlock read, “ _’I will get my daughter back, and I will kill anyone who stands in my way.  Starting with Sherlock Holmes.’_ ”  He fell silent, a wrinkle forming between his brows as he looked pensively at the letter.  

“Sherlock?”

“She doesn’t even mention Nathan Garrideb,” said Sherlock.  He refolded the letter and slipped it into his coat pocket.  “He wasn’t taken for ransom.  Why else would they want him?”  His voice dropped to the low, rapid-fire stream of consciousness that always reminded John of a hound on the scent.  “She hired a hacker to steal Effie Grant’s trust fund money and used it to fund her operations.  That much is obvious.  But if she had to send someone here to collect Garrideb without simply killing him, that implies he has something she wants.  The same thing Sylvius and Sala wanted, but what?”

“Garrideb didn’t know what Sala was after when he held up the shop.”  John’s tone was dubious.  

“He could have _had_ information without knowing he did,” insisted Sherlock.  “But if Mary was placing the chairs to direct her pawns, why would she target Garrideb?  He would be her ally, unwitting or no.  Funneling the Mazarin Chairs into the city for her.”

John frowned as he sifted through what seemed countless possibilities.  “If he had something without knowing it, where was it hidden?  In his shop?  Or…”  His frown deepened.  “Could it have been hidden on him?”

Sherlock stilled suddenly.  “Hidden on me.  Hidden inside my head.”

“What?”

“That’s what Jim Moriarty said, right before I jumped,” said Sherlock.  John felt the air calcify in his lungs, making each breath a splinter.  “Remember all those assassins, John?  The ones suddenly so keen on saving my life?  Moriarty convinced them he had given me a code without my knowing it.  But in the end, the code was meaningless.  There was no key...”  He trailed off, gaze swerving from side to side, as though corralling the facts in his mind.  Then it snagged, stopped.  The light of realization dawned over his features.  “Mary’s done the same thing now.”

“What?” John repeated, but Sherlock was already pivoting around, shining his torchlight over the debris strewn around the room.  “Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

“I was wrong,” said Sherlock, and his frankness brought John up short.  “I thought Mary was using the chairs to marshal her forces, but she was actually _luring_ them.  Enemies, competition for the title of Moriarty.  She was tempting them with something they knew existed, but had been hidden.”

“Hidden in one of the chairs?”  John’s thoughts were as disordered as the shop.  “Wait.  If she hid something, why would she need to kidnap Garrideb for it?”

Sherlock stepped nimbly across the room to a row of storage shelves.  His torchlight revealed the trinkets scattered there and threw their distorted shadows against the wall.  With his free hand, he reached carefully over the clutter, plucked a small, rounded object out of the murk, and lifted it into the light.  John recognized those gnarled ridges and valleys.  

“The walnut mold,” he said.  “The one for treating the chairs.”

“I thought the key was hidden in the treated legs.  Mary must have thought so, too, before she checked them all.  But the thing she sought – what they _all_ sought – wasn’t there.  The chairs weren’t the key; they were a clue.”  

Sherlock placed his mobile on the shelf, screen down, letting the torchlight fountain upwards.  Cupping the walnut in his palm, he gripped the top and twisted, tugged.  A seam formed along the middle, and the walnut opened.  The inside was solid wood – save for a protrusion in the middle, gleaming and plastic.  

“What,” John began, but his voice trailed off.  Sherlock pulled the plastic object out and held it up to the light.  His eyes hardened into shards of ice.  

“Mary was looking for something another person hid,” said Sherlock.  “Leverage against her.  Leverage _he_ hid.”

He extended his hand, displaying the object for John to see.  It was a memory stick, with words inked across the plastic casing in crude slash marks.  

_Miss me?_

John felt a chill hollow bore into his chest, as if the phantom of a madman had reached in to seize his heart and rip it out.  He took a step back and felt the grit of glass and porcelain crunch under his feet.  “It’s not possible.  He’s dead.”

“He is,” said Sherlock, quietly.  He turned the memory stick and peered at the words, as if searching for clues between the black letters.  “Flesh and bone will rot, but gigabytes last forever.”  He shrugged.  “Or, rather, as long as the device they’re saved on exists.”

“Maybe that should be destroyed, too.”   

Sherlock shook his head.  “Mary is keen to get her hands on this.  She kidnapped Mr. Garrideb for it, thinking he knew where it was hidden.  But he hasn’t got a clue.  He’s been sitting on a bomb for years without knowing it.”

“So,” John said, “Moriarty hid leverage on Mary when he hired her.  Why?  Some sort of safeguard?”

“Mary was too clever by far,” said Sherlock, nodding, “and Jim Moriarty knew it.  If there was ever a contender for his throne, it was she.  If we looked at Mr. Garrideb’s records, we could find that Moriarty had been using this shop to launder money long before Mary showed up.  Moriarty needed a hiding place he knew well, one he could check often without raising suspicion – and one in plain sight.”  His mouth quirked into a half-smile.  “He was funny like that.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said John.  He was eager to be away from the darkness, the uncanny intensity that lit Sherlock from within when his thoughts turned to James Moriarty.

 _We’ll never be rid of his madness,_ thought John, looking at the memory stick.   _Not entirely._

_Not if we’re taking a piece of Moriarty with us._

 

-

 

They returned to Baker Street, Sherlock barking the address with an urgency that weighed the driver’s foot down on the gas pedal.  John spent the drive staring out the window, scanning windows and rooftops for the glint of a sniper rifle catching noonday sunlight.   

“Stop brooding, John,” said Sherlock.  “There’s no way Mary could be hunting us right now.”

John would not be deterred.  He watched, taut as a bowstring, as the cab sailed toward Baker Street and rolled to a halt.  Sherlock was out of the cab as soon as the locks disengaged, pelting toward the front door of 221.  John paid the fare and followed, finding Sherlock seated on the sofa with John’s laptop perched on his knees.  John crossed to the sofa and sat beside him.

“That’s mine,” he chided.

“It was the closest one to hand.”

“Hmph.  Fine.”  John gave the memory stick a dubious side-eye.  “If that thing gives my computer some kind of… psychotic virus, you’re buying me a new one.”

“Yes, dear,” Sherlock drawled, and then his eyes widened.  The look was gone before John could fully process it.  He might very well have imagined the tremor in Sherlock’s fingers as he clicked open the memory stick and slotted it into the USB port.

A folder opened on the computer screen, inside which was a video file sitting beside a second folder, this one zipped shut.  Sherlock clicked the movie icon and Jim Moriarty’s face filled the screen.  The dead man’s lazy smile and quirked eyebrow belied the manic gleam in his eyes.  

“Hullo,” said Moriarty.  His voice – even crackling and distorted by a microphone – brought back the sharp scent of chlorine, the sloshing of waves.  His inky, piercing eyes bored into them, as if he could see them on the other side of the screen.  “It is you, isn’t it?  Sherlock Holmes?  It must be.  You’re the only one clever enough to find this.  The only one who can think like _me._ ”

A twinge rolled outward from the pit of John’s wounded shoulder.  The spasm of misfiring nerves raced down his arm, made his left hand shake.  

“We haven’t met yet,” said the madman on the screen.  A wistful look came into his eyes.  “But we will.  Oh, God, we _will._  I can’t _wait._ ”   

Sherlock shifted closer, pressing the warm length of his thigh again John’s.  It was only then that John realized the shaking in his hand had spread through his entire body.  Caught between hate and fear, he thrummed with impotent energy.  His mind seized the point of contact between them and held on, needing an anchor.   

“But!” Moriarty threw up his hands.  “Until then, I’ve got to make do.  Got a business to run, you know.  Even if it is full of hopeless sods.  Honestly, you can’t leave them alone for ten seconds before everything goes arseways.  Ridiculous.”  He shrugged with a put-upon look.  “But I have managed to scrounge a few diamonds from the rough.  That’s why I made this – to show you one.”

Moriarty paused.  A slow smile tilted his mouth.  

“She’s a gem,” he said.  “What a _naughty_ girl.”

A picture filled the screen, replacing Moriarty’s face with that of Mary Morstan.  Stripped of several years, her skin was smoother, her eyes less shadowed.  Her hair, pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, was tinted caramel.

John’s mind registered these small differences like raindrops hitting a windowpane – a mere patter to the thunderclap of what he saw in Mary’s eyes.  In that flat, dead gaze, John saw the reptilian creature he had only ever chanced to glimpse.  A monster masquerading as human.  

“This,” said Moriarty, his accent a lilting voiceover, “is Rosamund Mary Adelbert.  American, _obviously_.  First-rate sniper and former CIA.  Lovely girl.  Completely barking mad.  My favorite kind.  And too clever by half.  Hence this.”  He waved, encompassing the dark room, the world packaged and pixelated into a USB drive.  “If Miss Rosie ever gets it into her clever little head to stage a coup against her king, Sherlock, you must avenge me.”  A high, reedy giggle.  “You can be my knight.”

“Dull,” proclaimed Sherlock, rolling his eyes.  Affection bloomed in John’s breast.  There had been times when he’d wanted to kiss away Sherlock’s sarcasm and disdain, but he couldn’t recall wanting to kiss Sherlock _for_ his sarcasm and disdain.  

Sherlock must have picked up on John’s thoughts, for he colored prettily and attempted to cover it with a sneer.  “Forgot how needy he was.”

John was about to make a quip when Moriarty’s voice burst their bubble.  “In those files, you’ll find enough evidence to put Rosamund Adelbert in the highest-security prison you can find for the rest of her days.”

“We’ve got her, John.”  Sherlock was staring intently at the laptop screen, his bent form as taut as a bowstring.  “With this, we can—”

“Although,” cut in Moriarty, one brow arched in a parody of consideration, “I suppose I should use her proper name if I’m going to be implicating her.  Don’t want her to get out of jail on a technicality, after all.  You do still keep your married name after you die, don’t you?”  

John felt the breath leave his lungs in a rush.  “What…?”

“I guess it’s best to be on the safe side,” Moriarty chimed.  “Adelbert’ is her maiden name.  Her real name is Rosamund Mary Grant.”

 

-

 

Later, John wouldn’t be able to recall the time between watching Moriarty’s video and Alexander Grant’s arrival at the flat.  He would remember the knowing smirk on Moriarty’s face as he uttered the name _Rosamund Mary Grant_ , the numbness that blotted out his thoughts as understanding crashed down on him.  But he didn’t remember much after that.

Now, watching Alexander watch Moriarty, brow furrowed in quiet puzzlement, John was grateful that Sherlock could set aside his emotions.

Moriarty crooned “ _what a naughty girl_ ” and Alexander went still.  The color drained from his face and his jaw clenched, as if holding back a scream.  Steeling himself, John watched as Alexander fell apart in a way he knew all-too well.  Alexander was watching his dead love come back to life.  

“This can’t—“ The sofa creaked as he stood, shoving the laptop away so that it clattered against the coffee table.  “This isn’t—This isn’t _real_.  She…”  His voice roughened as if the words were choking him.  “She _died_!”

“She didn’t,” said John gently.  “Look, I… I know this is all going to come as a shock, but.  She changed her life.  She changed everything about herself, made herself into a completely different person.”

Alexander exhaled a gutted laugh.  “ _That_ I could believe.  She was a genius.  I was always ten steps behind her.  But this…”  He looked at the screen, where Mary’s youthful face stared back.  “This isn’t possible.  It must be a mistake.  S-she…”  His voice trembled, broke.  “She killed herself.  When the cancer spread to Effie’s brain, Rose couldn’t—couldn’t cope.”

He lapsed into silence for a moment, and John found his doctor’s compassion rushing to the fore.  “It was a terrible time for both of you.  Neither of you could be expected to cope.”

Alexander shook his head.  “This was… different.  Effie was our baby.”  He drew a shuddering breath and continued in a rush.  “Rose had always struggled with a part of herself.  She didn’t think I could see it, but I could.  I saw that there was a darkness in her, a sort of… block, I guess.  She couldn’t feel the way normal people do.  She couldn’t understand it.”  He smiled sadly.  “I loved her anyway.  God help me, I loved her.  She was… incandescent.”

“I know,” said John, thinking of Mary as he had first known her – sparkling with her own brilliance.  Had she been more honest with Alexander?  Had she really loved him, or had she been glad to leave him, to shake off someone whose intellect was leagues behind her own?  “I know she was.”

“When Effie died,” said Alexander, “Rose lost it.  She’d loved our daughter like I’d never seen her love someone before.  She spiraled.  Got depressed.  She didn’t eat, she rarely slept.  But people always say—people always say everyone grieves differently.  I thought Rose just needed…”  His face crumpled and he pressed his palm to his forehead, shoulders shaking.  “Time.”

“I read about her death,” said Sherlock.  Turning, John saw the consulting detective’s face twisted in annoyance.  “Drowned herself.”   

“They identified her by her dental records,” Alexander said.  “She was…”  He swallowed, blinked hard.  “Unrecognizable.”  

“A stand-in, no doubt,” said Sherlock.  “The market for corpses is surprisingly vast when you know the right people.”

“ _Sherlock._ ”  John shot him a warning look and he fell silent.  “Did Mary know someone who could fabricate the records?  The dentist, a clerk…”   

“Mary?” Alexander echoed.  “That was her middle name.  She went by Rose.  How did you know that?”  Something in his eyes sharpened as John searched for words.  “Your daughter.  Her name is _Rosamund._ ”  All at once, the suspicion clouding his features cleared as comprehension dawned.  “Oh, my God.  She…”

“Your Rose came to John under the guise of Mary Morstan,” said Sherlock.  John looked at him, touched by his haste to defend him.  “She was a nurse at John’s clinic, and she was the first to approach with romantic intentions.”

John blinked.  “I never told you that.”

“One of the many advantages of being a genius,” Sherlock said, but there was a hint of bitterness in his tone.  

“When did you first meet?” Alexander suddenly demanded, turning a dark glare on John.  

John reined in his defensive retort.  “2013, in… spring, sometime.  I think it was March.  She asked me out for drinks after a long day at the clinic and I thought, _‘what the hell?’_ ”  Mary had been friendly, charming in her certainty that John wouldn’t turn her down.  With more disbelief than reluctance, he continued.  “We married in May last year.”

Alexander flinched like he’d been dealt a blow.  He said, “Rose and I were married in April of 2002.  She always… always liked the spring.”  With a muttered curse, he covered his eyes with a hand and shook his head.  “My God.  I can’t believe you’re saying she’s alive.  It’s not possible.”

“I assure you,” said Sherlock, “she is.  Only she recently murdered the closest person my brother had to a friend, so she’s in hiding for now.  I can arrange for you to visit her, once we have her in a secure facility.”  The last remark was delivered with indifference, and John realized with a jolt that Alexander could turn on them if he still loved Mary.   _Rose._  God, he couldn’t blame the man for being shocked.

Sherlock had tensed, no doubt coming to the same conclusion John had.  Alexander sighed.  “You’ve nothing to worry about.  Frankly, I don’t completely believe you.  I don’t even half-believe you.  But I’m too…  This is a lot to, um.  Process.”

“It’s so simple,” Sherlock said, crooking one long forefinger at his chin.  “Mary was Effie’s mother, so of course she knew the credentials for accessing the trust fund.  With that, it was child’s play for her hacker to break into the account so nobody would trace the thefts back to her.  What would they think, a dead woman stealing from her equally deceased daughter?”  

Alexander made a choking sound and tried to disguise it as a cough.  Sherlock shifted, guilt written into every line of his body.  “I’m… sorry.”  

“It’s nothing,” said Alexander gruffly.

“Ma—… Rose joined James Moriarty within the month after she faked her death.  She moved quickly, ascending the ranks, and to be honest, Moriarty was never a one for conventional business practices.  He probably saw her potential right away, newcomer or no.”

“Within the month,” Alexander repeated.  

“The accounts on this are highly detailed,” said Sherlock, tapping the memory stick with one finger.  “Hundreds of jobs from 2010 to 2012 are recorded here.  The video was made before we met Moriarty, but he kept a thorough log after, too.”

Something about the memory stick snagged in John’s mind.  He stared at the dingy plastic case, sorting through his memories – and then he had it.  

“A.G.R.A.,” he breathed.

Alexander stiffened.  “How…”

“Mary gave me a memory stick with those initials when we discovered who she really was.  I threw it away.  I wanted to try again with her.  For Rosie.”  Sorrow splintered through John at the reminder of his daughter’s absence.  He pushed past it.  “So, you’re the A.G. of A.G.R.A..  And Mary is Rosamund…”

“Adelbert,” said Alexander.  “We were partners before we married.  Most of our incriminating work was filed together.”  His eyes were distant as he lost himself in the memories.  “Then I was injured, and my field work ended.”

“Rose wouldn’t have liked that,” said Sherlock.

A smile twisted Alexander’s mouth.  “She hated it.  She couldn’t stand boredom.  She always had to be moving, always in the field.  When she got pregnant, I didn’t know if she would want to keep it.  But she saw that I wanted it, and I think… I think she was curious.  She acted like being pregnant was some kind of experiment.  I think she was more surprised than anyone by how much she loved Effie.”  His voice cracked on the word _Effie_ and he swallowed.  “And now you tell me she’s got another husband and another child.  My God.”

A compulsion gripped John; against his better judgement, he reached out and squeezed Alexander’s shoulder.  The contact was light and brief, but he hoped it said what he couldn’t.   

“I think she loves Rosie,” said John.  “It’s the most fucked-up kind of love a parent can have for their child, but it _is_ love.”

Alexander leaned forward and braced his elbows against his knees, clasping both hands over his face.  He was quiet but for the tightly-controlled whistle-puff of his breathing.  After a long pause, he said, “She was always like that.  She couldn’t care the way most people did.  Always… distant, above it all.”

“You loved her anyway,” said Sherlock.  His tone caught John by surprise.  It was sympathy and wistfulness wound together like the threads of a rope.  

“I did,” said Alexander.  “I do.”

Sherlock began to speak, but was cut off by the shrill ring of his mobile phone.  After a long, charged moment, Sherlock drew out his mobile and looked at the screen.  

“No caller ID,” he murmured.  He tapped the screen and set the mobile on the coffee table.  “Mary.  So good of you to call.”

A moment of silence.  Then, a weary sigh.  “Hello, Sherlock.”

At the sound of her voice, Alexander made a choked noise and covered his mouth.  John felt another stab of pity for the big man.

“Got an old friend of yours with me,” Sherlock replied.  “We were just reminiscing about the good old days.  Honestly, I think he was looking at you through _rose-colored_ glasses.”

“Did you think bringing him to the gala would stop me from putting a bullet in Alicia Smallwood’s brain?  How’d that little scheme work out?”

“You could have shot me, too,” said Sherlock.  “But you didn’t.  You settled for winging Mycroft when you could have crippled him.  Why is that?”

“This is tedious,” sighed Mary.  “I didn’t call you for a debate.  I’ve got someone else on the line, but he isn’t feeling very chatty right now.”  Her voice shifted, as if she was projecting away from her mobile.  “Why don’t you speak up?  Are you pouting because I mentioned your dead girlfriend?  Come on, your little brother wants to talk to you.”

John listened in horror as a wet, meaty _thud_ sounded, followed by a groan.  Sherlock sat stone-still.  He looked like a child who had realized, after a great and exciting adventure, that he was alone with nowhere to go.  Confident, courageous – and then lost.

“I think we can do better than that,” said Mary.  Another _thud_ , a cracking breaking bone.  Her victim cried out in pain and John was abruptly unmoored.  Mycroft was always infuriatingly calm, composed, in control.  He couldn’t possibly be that whimpering victim on the other end of the line.  

“Try again,” said Mary.  “Say, ‘hello, baby brother.’”

Mycroft coughed wetly and croaked, “Sherlock.”

Mary sighed again.  “You Holmes boys are bloody nuisances.  Can’t say what you’re told to say, can’t die when you’re shot in the heart.  Maddening.”

“Mary,” John said, his voice strangled.  He had finally connected the dots and come to the horrible conclusion.  “Rosie—”

“Is _mine,_ ” Mary snarled, cutting him off.  Her façade of calm had cracked, revealing the rage roiling underneath.  “You tried to take my daughter away from me, John, but I won’t let you.  You’ll never see Rosie _again._ ”

  “Rosie.” John’s voice broke on his baby’s name.  His Rosie, his darling.  He had as good as handed her over to Mary the moment he entrusted her to Mycroft’s care.  “Oh God.  No.  Mary, you can’t—”

“I’m only contacting you because I know you two will come after me,” Mary interjected.  “I’m not interested in a chase.  This has to end now, Sherlock.  I owe you for crippling what could have been _my_ empire.  Oh!”  A theatrical little gasp, as though an idea had just come to her.  “Weren’t you just talking about crippling your brother, Sherlock?  How I didn’t do it?”

Sherlock’s face convulsed and he cried, “No!”

Too late.  Gunfire thundered across the line and Mycroft screamed.  Seconds stretched into agony as they listened to Mycroft’s cries, interspersed by gulping pants.  At last, a third heavy blow sounded, ending the screams with brutal finality.  

“Done,” said Mary.  “He’s alive, but if you want him to stay that way, you’ll listen to me.  I’m sure you can figure out where I am – be here by dusk, or I’m gone, and I’ll kill your precious big brother as incentive to leave me alone.  Same goes if you bring the police.  You and John will come alone.  Understand?”

Sherlock’s mouth moved, but he made no sound.  He was white to the lips.

“Sher-lock,” said Mary in a singsong voice.

“Y-yes,” Sherlock stammered.  “I do.”

“Smart boy,” said Mary.  “See you soon.”

In that instant, Alexander shuddered and came to life, breaking through his daze with a raw, inhuman cry.  No, not a cry – a name.  “ _Rose_!”

There was no reply.  The line had gone dead.  


	13. CHAPTER TWELVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left out certain tags in order to keep some things a surprise. Please see the end of the chapter for TWs if you are easily triggered. 
> 
> Next updates will be on Wednesday and Friday. 
> 
> As always, if you spot a mistake, please let me know so I can correct it. :)
> 
> I'm Zingiberis on Tumblr.

 

Sherlock crouched in the long grass and set down his sword so he could push his hat away from his eyes.  Late afternoon sunlight slanted over the hills, bathing the valley in a golden glow.  In his mind’s eye, the sheep’s fescue and common bent were transformed into ocean waves that rolled and surged in a mighty tempest.  

Redbeard leaned into Sherlock’s side with a weary huff.   _ Mayhap we should turn back, Cap’n.   _

“’Course not, first mate Redbeard,” said Sherlock.  “Only a lily-livered coward would turn back!”

“William.”

Sherlock turned, still crouching, and scowled up at Mycroft.  His big brother loomed over him, his portly face scrunched under the assault of sunlight.  

“Go away, Mycroft,” he said.  

“Mummy wants us back for dinner,” said Mycroft.  Sherlock rolled his eyes, unaware that his eyepatch cut the effect in half.  He was beginning to learn that Mycroft loved two things above all else:  spoiling Sherlock’s fun and eating.  

“Don’t wanna,” said Sherlock.  “And don’t call me William!  My name is Sherlock now.”

Sherlock had come to this decision just last week, but the rest of his family didn’t seem keen to get on board with the change.  When he announced his new identity, Mummy had only quirked an eyebrow and Father had smiled vaguely.  Mycroft had met him with a scornful look.

“Father won’t be pleased about that,” said Mycroft.  He surprised Sherlock by bending to stroke Redbeard’s brow.  “He acts like he doesn’t mind, but he named you for Grandfather, after all.”

“Well, I don’t see why you get a unique name and I just get boring old ‘William.’”

“There was a pirate called William Kidd,” said Mycroft, idly.  “He sailed the Indian Ocean.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.  He was eventually hanged for it.  His body dangled from the gibbet beside the Thames for years to discourage piracy.”

Sherlock was fascinated.  He stood and swung his toy sword in a vicious arc.  “That’s fantastic!  I’ll be just like him.”

“Don’t be so keen, brother mine,” said Mycroft, lowering himself to a seat beside Redbeard.  “It would be awful to die like that, alone and friendless.”

“ _ You _ don’t have any friends,” remarked Sherlock. 

“Certainly not.  Far too… messy.  But you aren’t like me.  You need friends.”

“Do not!” cried Sherlock.  “I don’t need anyone!”

Mycroft said nothing, but scratched Redbeard behind the ears.  Sherlock felt the meaning of his brother’s words skate across the surface of his mind and he pushed it away, suddenly wary.  

“Aren’t you going to go snitch to Mummy and Father?” he challenged.  He didn’t know it then, but he would ask Mycroft that question many times over the following decades:  after he snuck his first cigarette, after he and Victor were caught snogging behind Father’s gardening shed, after his first ( _ second, third _ ) overdose.

Mycroft shook his head and leaned back on his palms.  With his eyelids half-lowered by the glare, his cheeks growing rosy and warm, and his shoulders hunched almost to his ears, he looked more at ease than Sherlock could ever remember seeing him. 

“Mummy’s rigatoni will keep for a few more minutes,” he said.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.  He was at the stage where he would only eat chicken fingers and cheese toasties, though he tasted all kinds of inadvisable things.  Good practice:  the tongue was a highly useful tool in a consulting detective’s repertoire.  

Wait.   _ I’ve got the times wrong. _

“Sherlock?”  

Mycroft was looking at him with a question in his eyes.  His lips moved and John’s voice came out, strained with concern.  

“You okay?”

“ _ I’m _ William, not you,” he told Mycroft.  “It shouldn’t be you.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed and John asked, “What? You’re not—you aren’t on anything, are you?  Did you bring something in the car?”

Sherlock blinked as the fragments of the field in Warwickshire in his Mind Palace in the rented car he and John and Alexander were taking to Hampshire failed to align.  Of course it couldn’t work – he was trying to assemble a complete puzzle from random pieces out of three separate boxes.   He blinked again and the sheep’s fescue and common bent melted into dribbles of honey.  Mycroft was blurring before his eyes.  

And then the field was gone; he was standing in the clean, bright halls of his Mind Palace.  He was sitting in the passenger seat of a rented car as it flew down the M3 toward Mycroft’s house.  Redbeard was long dead – euthanized when his aggressive osteosarcoma refused to respond to treatment.  

Mycroft was still alive.  Had to be.  Mary was a psychopath, but she was too smart to throw away a good bargaining chip in a fit of pique.  As long as she thought two hostages were better than one, Mycroft would be safe.  

“Sherlock?”

“I’m fine,” he replied.  

“You didn’t—”

“No.”

John turned his attention back to the road without a word.  His knuckles were white around the steering wheel.  

As they sped along the winding, field-hedged road, Sherlock looked ahead, where the lights of villages in the distance glittered in the night like beacon towers:   _ danger, danger. _

They were nearing Mycroft’s country home.  For all he occupied a broom cupboard in the British Government, the estate in Basingstoke was the one great extravagance Sherlock’s brother allowed himself.  Sherlock had been an unwilling guest more than once – always high or detoxing, save for the incident with Irene Adler.  Much to his chagrin, he remembered it with perfect clarity.  

A historic estate, it had sheltered aristocrats and political figures over its long lifetime.  Wrought-iron gates.  A long drive to a semicircular car park.  Vast, sprawling grounds lined with neatly-groomed walkways and rows of trees.  Out back, a botanical garden, the limits of which Sherlock had never been sober enough to discover.  The house spanned over fifty-thousand feet, with over twenty bedrooms and baths.  

The excess made Sherlock want to laugh.  Mycroft boasted about never needing a goldfish, but his home told a different story: one of lonely corridors and empty rooms.  

“That’s Frimley gone,” said John, glancing at his mobile.  “We should be there soon.  Minutes.”

“The gates will be open.”

“We aren’t going right into the car park.  We need to be smart about this.”

“We’re guests.  We’ve been  _ invited. _ ”  

“And you think Mary’s just going to let us come in, take Rosie and Mycroft, say  _ ‘ta for the tea and crisps, but we’ve really got to dash’ _ and leave?  If Mary is anything like Moriarty, she’ll have the car blown up before we get in the house.”  He sighed through his nose.  “Drama queens, all of you.”

Sherlock scowled but held his tongue.  Not an hour ago, he had been contemplating blowing up John and Mary’s car – taken by Mary when she fled to Basingstoke – to ensure she couldn’t escape.  

From the backseat, Alexander asked, “And what about me?”

“You’ll stay,” said John firmly.  “You aren’t in a state to see Mary, much less help us subdue her.  Guard the car so no one tries to blow it up.”

“Right,” said Alexander, sounding weary.  

Sherlock looked out the window and saw another beacon of village lights approaching.  “We’re getting close.”

“Yeah.”

They sped through Basingstoke and onto a side road, where gnarled trees rose and caged them in, blotting out the view of the sun setting in a thin halo over the horizon.  The road was narrow and the way ahead wreathed in darkening shadows, but John turned off the headlights and drove on in heavy silence.  After several minutes, he steered the car onto a weedy path scarcely wide enough to be called a road and slowed to a crawl, inching forward until brittle branches scraped against the car windows.  He stopped and killed the engine.  

“We’re a little over half a mile from the estate,” said John.  Disengaging his seatbelt, he twisted around to face Alexander.  “Here.  Spare keys.  Mycroft probably won’t be able to walk, so we’ll need you to drive up to the gate when this is all sorted.  One of us will call or text – don’t answer if it isn’t one of our numbers.  Got it?”

“Yes.”

“The plan is to call the police once we’ve got Mary under control, but if we don’t call you to bring the car ‘round in one hour, call them anyway.”

“Right.”

“Good.”  John hefted his Sig and looked to Sherlock.  “Ready?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock.  He reached into his coat pocket, fingers closing around the cold grip of a Glock 17.  One of his many elicit purchases since John left Baker Street – one he didn’t like to dwell on.  John’s eyes had been dark with unasked questions when Sherlock unearthed the pistol from the depths of his desk drawer.  

Tree branches screeched and snapped against the car door as John wedged it open. “Let’s go.”

With a last look at Alexander in the backseat – shoulders hunched, making him appear smaller,  _ lesser _ – Sherlock followed John out of the car.  A shiver ran down the back of his neck.  It was the chilly evening air, surely.  

John picked his way back to the main road and Sherlock followed, keeping one hand on the Glock.  With his nerves pulled taut, every creak of twigs and crunch of dead leaves underfoot was magnified tenfold.

Rosie kidnapped.  Mycroft injured, probably crippled, possibly bleeding out as Sherlock and John inched toward him.  Too slow, too  _ slow. _  Alexander, growing smaller by the minute, vanishing as Rosamund Mary Adelbert took form.  

_ Incandescent, _ Alexander had said, uncaring as he burned to be near her.  

John stopped and waved for Sherlock to follow him off the road.  They took refuge behind a tree, its trunk leaning at a narrow angle to the ground, its center gauged open by an ancient scar.  John drew so close to Sherlock that he could feel as good as hear the words breathed into his ear.

“Saw the fence and the gate.  It’s open, just like you said.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock.  “We’re here as Mary’s guests, after all.”

“Well, we can’t just walk right in.”

Sherlock peered around the gnarled trunk to see the wrought iron fence in the distance.  A shadow peeled away from the murk and took the shape of a man, striding past the fence.  Moonlight shone on the barrel of his rifle.  

When the guard turned a corner and merged into the shadows cast by a row of linden trees, Sherlock retreated back behind the trunk.  “Let’s not make it  _ too _ easy for her.”

They waited while a quarter of an hour passed, each second sluggish with the burden of their shared understanding.  With every lost minute, Mycroft could be closer to death.  Rosie could be gone.  Just when Sherlock thought he could wait no longer, another guard made the rounds – a different man, judging by his height and gait.  Sherlock waited as he followed the same path and vanished.  After five minutes without a sound, he crept out of the shelter of the tree.  

John’s hand on his elbow stopped him, making his heart thud and head swim with alarming swiftness.  He turned.

“Sherlock,” said John, quietly.  So quietly.  His hand fell away from Sherlock’s elbow and Sherlock leaned closer, needing to hear, needing the contact back.  “Before we really get into trouble, I want.  Um, I needed to say.  About what we… last night…”

Panic clawed at Sherlock.   _ I can’t do this right now.   _

“Don’t bother,” he said.

John looked stricken.  The expression lasted only an instant, quickly shuttered, but Sherlock felt regret like rot inside him.  

“We have more important things to worry about just now,” he amended.  

John cleared his throat.  “Right.”  He turned his face away, mouth pulling into a thin line.  “’Course you’re right.”

“Eight minutes until the next guard passes.”  Sherlock spoke rapidly, needing to fill the space.  “Let’s go.”

Without awaiting John’s reply, he rounded the trunk and slunk toward the fence.  The trees flanking the gate provided shelter, blocking out the moonlight as their limbs reached toward the stars with spindly fingers.  He stopped as the fence loomed close and began picking his way through the brush parallel to the wrought-iron spikes.  Crunches and cracks of foliage underfoot told him John was close behind.

They stopped where the row of linden trees began on the other side of the fence and Sherlock cupped his hands to give John a foothold.  The fence was perhaps eight feet high, but John managed admirably, grunting and levering one leg over and through the gap between two finials.  With surprising swiftness, he gripped the horizontal rail in both hands, pulled himself up so his other foot could clear the fence, and jumped.  As he landed with a muffled  _ thud _ on the other side, Sherlock’s breath left him in a rush.  He clambered to follow suit.

They dashed along the path as it wound around the estate in a great arc.  It was not a direct route, but the alternative would be to pelt across the open grounds, where even an amateur marksman could pick them off at their leisure.  

A dark hedge maze rose into view as they followed the path around the side of the building.  In the darkness, the leaves looked like snake scales – sinuous and serrated.  A memory nudged at the back of Sherlock’s mind and he turned.

“Sherlock?”  John’s voice rose just above a murmur.

“This way.”  Sherlock darted toward a break in the hedges.  He remembered this place – had used it to hide from Mycroft’s toadies more than once.  Even when he’d been off his tits on cocaine, it had been ridiculously simple to exploit their stupidity.  “There’s a servants door past here.”

“A servants…”  John trailed off and shook his head.  “Of course Mycroft has a bloody servants door…”

As they ran toward the maze, Sherlock looked up at the mansion.  Not a single light shone through the bay windows; Mary had cut the power.  

Behind him, there was a little gasp and the sound of a body falling to the ground.  Sherlock dug in his heels and whipped around, heart thudding in his throat.  

“John?”

“I’m fine,” John said, but there was a tightness in his voice that sounded wrong.  He paused.  “Shit,  _ shit. _  Sherlock, it’s a body.  I tripped over him.”

Sherlock’s heart kicked back into a gallop as he drew near to John and crouched, squinting at the still form.  Sprawled on his side with his head resting under the drape of his limp arms, he was of slight stature, clad in black.  It was no surprise John hadn’t seen him.  Sherlock gripped the dead man’s arm and tipped him onto his back.  His lined, pale face stared emptily at the stars.  

“It’s not Mycroft,” said John.  

“I know,” said Sherlock tightly.  He had known  _ before _ seeing the man’s face, and it irked him that he had needed confirmation.  “One of his security team.  The others are in the same state, no doubt.”

John rose and pressed a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Let’s go.”

Swallowing past the sour taste in his mouth, Sherlock turned on the dead man and lead John into the hedge maze.  The years-old memories were tinged by drugs, but muscle memory carried him and they were soon at the servants door.  As he jimmied the lock, the weight of a predator’s gaze shrouded him, chasing shivers down his spine and making his hands shake.  The door swung open and he crowded John inside in his haste to be out of the open.  

“You feel it too, don’t you,” said John.  “Like we’re being followed.”

Sherlock nodded.  He didn’t trust his voice to be steady.

“When I was in Afghanistan – either on base or out in the field – I would feel it, sometimes.  Like I was being watched.  Hunted.”  He pursed his lips, weighed his words.  “When I was in Maiwand, I mean.  When I was shot.  Felt a lot like this.”

_ It won’t be like that time, _ thought Sherlock, but his mouth felt glued shut.  

They crept through the corridor to a flight of stairs.  Built to be tastefully discreet, the servants corridor was narrow and windowless, enclosing them in total darkness.  The sense of being pursued was not lessened by the shelter of brick and mortar; now he felt hemmed in, claustrophobic.  Their hunter was drawing closer with every moment.  

A door opened off the servants corridor into a wide hall.  The curtains at the window were closed, barring even a glimmer of moonlight from shining through the blackness.  Sherlock remembered this room vividly – remembered Irene Adler perched on the end of the table, red lips slashed into a smile as she crooned,  _ “The Virgin.” _

Lost in the memory, Sherlock almost missed it:  a wet rasp of breath.  Again, louder, and a voice that wrenched at Sherlock’s very soul:  “Brother… mine.”

“Oh God,” John gasped.  

Sherlock was already striding toward the closed curtains, heedless of the danger.  He wrenched them wide and whirled around.  

Mycroft lay on the table, legs straight, hands clasped on his chest.  The blood staining his grey three-piece suit was as black as oil.  

Sherlock’s mind raced to catalogue the damage:  a bullet in each knee, each shin, each shoulder.  Dried blood crusted Mycroft’s interlocking fingers, sealing them together.  All of that was superficial – incredible, what the human body could survive – but the slick mess of blood torn across his midsection was a different matter.  Too much blood to count the bullet holes.  Staining expensive wool, pooling on solid oak.  

John was in motion, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves.  Mycroft cringed as his hands brushed his midsection.  Sherlock hovered at a distance, unable to move for the shock rolling through him, each wave pushing him further out to a place of icy numbness.  

_ Paul Smith – well over a thousand quid.  Bloodstains are a nightmare to wash out. _

“Sherlock!” John’s hiss broke through his stupor.  “He’s conscious.  Trying to say something.”

Sherlock tottered closer and stared down at his brother, feeling oddly disconnected from his own body.  Staring down at himself staring down at Mycroft.  Staring.  

“Mycroft, can you hear me?” John asked.  His voice sounded like a shout in the stagnant air.  Sherlock drew a deep breath, smelled iron and gunpowder.  

Mycroft’s wheeze ended in a gurgle.  Red spittle lined his lips.  “Hu…rry.”

“Mycroft,” said John, “I’m going to tie off some tourniquets and tend to your waist.  It’s going to hurt.”  Already his hands were moving, undoing the buttons of Mycroft’s waistcoat and pushing it aside.  He sucked in a sharp breath as the damage was unveiled, but his hands were steady as he ripped a strip of cloth from Mycroft’s dress shirt.  “Hold still.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered.  “Little… brother.”

John tugged the first tourniquet tight around Mycroft’s upper thigh.  “Where is Mary?  And Rosie?”

“Hangar.”  Mycroft panted as a thin, pink line dribble from between his lips down his chin.  “Just… left.  Hu…  hurry.”

John’s hands stilled for just an instant, then went back to their task.  “She’s running.   _ Shit. _ ”  

“Decided not to confront us after all,” said Sherlock.  His voice sounded hollow even to himself.  “Easier to escape.  Leave us with…”  A lump grew in his throat, choking off his voice.

“You can… stop her,” Mycroft said.  “If you… go.”

John looked helplessly at Sherlock.  It was a look that spoke in fragments:   _ I can’t—my baby—but this—but you—please— _

“You stay here,” said Sherlock.  “I’ll go after her.”

“No—no, you can’t,” John said.  “She’ll kill you—”

“Her attention will be divided between me and trying to escape.  And she’ll know you’re not far behind.  She won’t be able to focus.”  

The words were spilling out of him were half-bluff and half-hope, little more than an excuse to run.  He couldn’t stay here.  Couldn’t watch his brother bleed out on the table.  Better to face Mary’s bullet again.  

John looked ready to argue, but Mycroft gave a rattling gasp and he shut his mouth with a click of teeth.  Shadows haunted his eyes as he swept them from Sherlock to Mycroft and down to his arms, already crimson-black to the wrists.  

“Rosie,” he said.

That was all the permission Sherlock needed.  Darting forward, he swiped his sleeve across Mycroft’s chin, cleaning off the blood and spittle.  Mycroft caught his gaze and his lips twitched into a pained attempt at a smile.

“John will take care of you.”  Sherlock glanced at John, who only looked at him with an empty gaze.

Mycroft nodded once, heavily.  “Of… course.  Go.”

Sherlock turned and fled.  He didn’t dare look back.  

 

-

 

He was sprinting back down the stairs and through the corridor, each breath a scrape, pulse slamming in his ears.  He reached the door, threw it open, and tore out through the hedge maze.  

Mycroft, lying alone on that table as the life drained out of him.  Infuriating and surprising and always stepping in to clean up Sherlock’s messes.  Always the adult.  Smiling at the simple kindness of having spittle wiped off his chin.

_ It would be awful to die like that, alone and friendless. _

Lady Smallwood –  _ Alicia, _ Mycroft had called her Alicia – lying dead beneath the sheet, her body still warm.  Billy Wiggins in the water, mangled past recognition.  Nathan Garrideb’s severed finger on the floor of his shop.  The anguished sound Alexander made when he heard his wife’s voice for the first time in five years.

It had to end.  Mary had paved a path with broken bodies and shattered lives and she needed to be stopped.  If Sherlock couldn’t do it – couldn’t save Rosie from her own mother – John Watson would be just another casualty crushed under Mary’s heel.  

The hangar was impossible to miss in the vast landscape of the estate grounds, immense and shining with metallic fluorescence.  Its modernity was garish amidst the aesthetic of old money and grandeur.  Mycroft’s addition, no doubt – a ham-fisted way of dragging his home into the twenty-first century.  

As Sherlock approached, the mechanical grind of wheels rolling and squealing pierced the air.  The light intensified as the doors rolled up.  Even a hundred yards away, Sherlock could clearly see the outline of the aircraft – a mid-sized Cessna, plain white with no identifiable markings.  If Mary got off the ground in that, they had no chance of catching her.  

Trees and paved walkways fell away, leaving open grounds with no semblance of cover.  Sherlock didn’t care; didn’t have  _ time _ to care, there was no time.  Chill air whipped him as he tore down the slope and the ground evened out.  He was across the green and standing at the open door, staring down the nose of the Cessna.  Drawing his shoulders back, he stepped inside.  

The first people he saw were a pair of crewmen, darting around the jet with the manic purpose of ants with a magnifying glass looming over their heads.  One caught site of Sherlock, blanched, and turned back to his task without a word.  

“Don’t pester the crew, Sherlock.  They’re on a tight schedule.”

Mary walked around the side of the Cessna, her white trainers squeaking on the tile.  Clad in an oversized blue coat, a floral pattern button-up and jeans, she hardly looked the part of aspiring Moriarty.  

Of course, that was the point – after all, Sherlock had completely dismissed the shy, fumbling IT bloke in Molly’s lab all those years ago.  He had dismissed John’s date, with her sweet smiles and blond curls.  He had been a blind fool.

Mary turned, revealing a bundle in the crook of her arm:  Rosie.  Slumbering soundly, the baby was oblivious to all but the warmth of her mother’s body.   A Walther PPK was clasped in Mary’s other hand.  The same gun she had used to shoot him:  how fitting.

“Mary.  So good to see you.”  Sherlock took a step forward and Mary raised the gun, her lips quirking into a smile.  

“Ah, none of that, now,” she said.  “Don’t try to be clever with me.”

Sherlock raised his hands in surrender.  He had no illusions about being able to draw his own gun before Mary put a bullet in him – and this time, she wouldn’t mess about with his heart.  He could see her stare honing in on his forehead, could practically feel her imagination brush the spot between his eyes: marking him.   _ Right here. _

“Thought you wanted to talk,” he said.   

Mary shrugged.  “I decided I didn’t want to bother.  I think I was just… annoyed?  A little.  You’d shot my carefully-laid plans to hell, so I needed to shoot something of yours back.  Did you find your big brother, by the way?”

Bile soured the back of Sherlock’s throat.  He grimaced and nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Rosie, on the gun.   _ Don’t think about Mycroft. _  “It’d be easier to run without an infant to look after.  Leave Rosie here and I won’t come after you.”

Mary’s smile vanished.  Her eyes hardened into shards of glass.  “You think you’re in any position to make demands?  How about you do what I say or I put a bullet in you?  How about that?”  Her voice was a snarl, an inhuman thread of fury.  “Coat off.  Now.”  

Sherlock obeyed and shrugged off the Bellstaff.  The wool muffled the clank of his gun hitting the floor.  Mary stepped on the corner of the coat and dragged it out of Sherlock’s reach.  Her glare never left him and her aim never wavered.  

“Simonson!” she barked.  One of the crewmen jumped to attention.  “Search him.  Now!”

Trembling, Simonson inched toward Sherlock, palms outstretched.  Sherlock briefly considered taking the man hostage, but ultimately decided against it – the Cessna could use only one pilot in a pinch.  Mary considered this man disposable. 

“He’s g-got nothing,” Simonson stammered.

“Get back to work.”  As Simonson scrambled back to work on the jet, Mary studied Sherlock with a cold stare.  “Where is John?”

_ Watching my brother die.   _ “On his way.  If you leave Rosie and hurry, you can be gone before he gets here.”

Mary cocked her head.  “Seriously, Sherlock?  You think you can reason your way out of this?  That I’m going to leave my child so you and John can play house until you decide you’re ready to come after me?”

“I told you—”

“I don’t believe you.  I don’t believe you for a  _ single second. _  You’re Sherlock Holmes – you can’t just let a case go.  You’re like a mad dog once you’ve got your teeth in.  The only way to deal with you is to put you down.”

Mary’s fingers tightened infinitesimally around the trigger of her gun and Sherlock tensed, mind racing for something,  _ anything _ to say to stall her.  Keep her talking.

“You can’t stop either,” he said, so quickly the words almost blurred into an unintelligible mess.  Mary paused and he rushed on:  “You couldn’t stop being the agent, the assassin.  You couldn’t turn it off.  Not with John and…”  He took a breath, took a great risk.  “…not with Alexander.”

Mary was silent for a moment.  Then she huffed a chuckle.  “All the resources in the United States, and he had to come to you for help.  Of course.”

“The universe is rarely lazy,” said Sherlock, “but this time, I think it made an exception.”

“Well, you’re wrong to think having him around will stop me.  I left him five years ago and I can leave him again.  I can make it so he doesn’t come looking for me, too.”

“Could you?” asked Sherlock.  “He was an agent, just like you – your perfect match.  Until he was crippled, at least.  Is that why you left him?”  Another meaningful pause, and then the greatest risk yet:  “Or was it because you couldn’t bear losing Effie?”

Mary lowered her gun and pulled the trigger.  The shot was deafening at such close range; Sherlock’s ears were still ringing when his mind began to process what had happened.  He fell to the floor with a scream of pain.  Blood pulsed from his thigh, soaking his trousers and pooling beneath him.

“Femur,” Mary said.  “Know what’s close to that?  The femoral artery.  Impossible to predict exactly where an artery lies, by the way – I can’t believe you tried to feed John that crap.  But I guess it worked in my favor.”

Sherlock clamped his palms over the wound and bit back his screams.  Pain was blotting out his rational thought, his clever plans.  Perception narrowed to an epicenter of agony.  A rough grip in his hair, yanking his head up by the roots.  Mary’s large, grey eyes bored into him.  

“Never,” she hissed, “speak her name again.  She was  _ mine. _ _ My child. _ ”

Sherlock sucked in a breath and fought back a scream.  “You… tried to…”  He choked back a sob and looked at Rosie.  The baby had roused and was whimpering into Mary’s breast.  

Mary understood.  “You wouldn’t understand, Sherlock.  How could you?  There’s nothing like it – nothing like realizing you’re a vessel, you’re  _ reduced, _ and then?  You love it.  It’s your biological imperative to love this frail little parasite that’s living in you, growing fat and healthy on your blood.”  She shook her head.  “When I first found out about… about Effie, I hated her.  I wanted to get rid of her.  But Alexander was so excited.  He was thrilled to be a father.  So I sat on it for months, thinking every day when I woke up, ‘ _ This is a mistake. _ ’  But I had her, and…”  She trailed off, eyes distant.  Sadness flickered over her face.  “Well.  It was easier to have Rosie.”

“You’ll kill her,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.  

“She belongs to me.”  Mary dropped Sherlock to the floor and drew to her full height, crooning as Rosie cried.  

“John,” Sherlock croaked, half to Mary and half to himself.

Mary rolled her eyes.  “See, Sherlock, that’s how I knew right away.  That you weren’t a ‘high-functioning sociopath,’ I mean.  Jim was infatuated enough to fool himself into thinking you were like him, that you were playing with John and all the others for a lark.  But that night at the pool… I knew.  You were just like everyone else.”

Sherlock curled in on himself.  Blood spurted between his fingers, sticky and hot.  

“John’s really taking his time, isn’t he,” Mary mused.  “Might as well give him an incentive.”

Sherlock scarcely had a moment to register her words before he felt her foot pushing his shoulder so he fell onto his back.  She kicked him once in the face and he jerked back with a gasp, releasing his leg.  Her next kick came down on his wound, burying the toe of her white trainer in matted blood.  Sherlock screamed.  

“That should do the trick,” said Mary, and just like that, John was barreling out of the night into the hangar.  Fury flashed across his face as he took in the situation and he raised his gun, but Mary was fast, so fast.  She turned toward John, the muzzle of the Walther PPK pressed into Rosie’s downy hair.  John stilled.

“Drop the gun, John,” said Mary.  “Or I’ll make you watch me kill them before I kill you.”

“You’ll kill us anyway,” John snarled.

“Maybe.  But Rosie will be safe.”

“For how long?” 

Mary sighed, as if weary of the entire exchange.  “No point in trying to compromise,” she muttered.  Then she shouted, “Winter!  Get rid of them.”

Sherlock was suddenly aware of another presence in the hangar.  The gut sense of being hunted, of being  _ prey _ cloaked his mind and he craned his neck, blinking past white-hot pain.  A tall man dressed in black stood at the open end of the hangar.  Wild, hungry eyes settled on Sherlock and a grin sliced across his face.  

“Don’t!” snarled John, gaze flicking from Mary to Winter and back.  “Don’t you dare—”

Winter raised a pistol and squeezed the trigger.  The roar of the gunshot reverberated in Sherlock’s ears – and John’s knees buckled, crimson blossoming along his ribs.  His arms dropped to his sides and the Sig slipped from his lax fingers and clattered to the floor.  

Distantly, Sherlock was aware of things happening – Simonson and the other crewman shouting to Mary, Mary crossing to the walkway without a backwards glance, Rosie heaving ragged sobs.  None of that mattered.  All that mattered was John toppling over, unmoving.  

And Sherlock was shouting, screaming, his voice growing more and more frantic and cracking and breaking on  _ John, John, get up John, no no no, John— _

The shooter –  _ Winter _ – was sauntering toward Sherlock, grinning like a hyena, pistol raised for a second shot.  Sherlock pried his hands away from his wounded leg and began dragging himself toward John, but his strength was fading with every passing second and dark spots were gathering on the edges of his vision and John was  _ so far away.  _  Winter was coming closer and closer, the hunter about to make a kill, eyes shining with bloodlust.  Mary was climbing the walkway up to the cabin door of the Cessna and shouting orders to the crew as she struggled to keep her hold on Rosie.  

A shout, rising above the mayhem:  “Rose!”

Mary froze with the cabin door yawning open before her.  She turned toward the open end of the hangar.  

Alexander stood in the doorway.  The expression on his face was at once so tender and desperate that Sherlock was momentarily dazed; it was a look that spoke of deep wounds but deeper love, an endless well that never ran dry.  With a word – maybe even with a look – Mary could have Alexander’s forgiveness.  Perhaps she already did.  

Winter rounded on Alexander with a glare:  the hyena, snapping its jaws at competition for carrion.  “ _ Get out! _ ”

Alexander ignored him and took one hobbling step into the hangar.  “Rose, please listen to me.  You don’t have to do this!”

“Get out,” Winter repeated in a low growl, “before I put a bullet between your eyes.”

Only fools saw a man with a limp and assumed he was harmless.  No doubt Mary’s guards patrolling the perimeter had thought the same, and one was lying under the linden trees, neck broken and gun missing.  Winter, seeing a harmless man, was too slow by milliseconds.   Alexander raised his arm in a swift, fluid motion and fired in the span of a blink.   Winter dropped to the floor, a bullet hole stamped between his eyes.  

Sherlock was numb to the chaos surrounding him as he dragged himself the final few inches to lay beside John.  He fumbled with bloody fingers at the collar of John’s shirt, streaking red over his throat as he searched for a pulse.  Nothing, nothing— _ John. _

“John, please,” he whispered.

“Rose!” Alexander shouted as he hobbled toward the Cessna.  A rumble rolled through the hangar as the engine came to life, juddering through Sherlock’s bones.  Mary, gone.  Rosie, gone.  John.  “Rose, don’t do this!”

His words were lost in the roar of the jet engine blasting through the hangar.  Mary shifted Rosie against her shoulder and her mouth tightened.  With a last look at Alexander, she turned away, reaching for the open cabin door.  Taking one step inside.

John jerked beneath Sherlock’s hands.  Cupping the cage of his ribs, he rolled and freed his left hand, the hand that had searched with agonizing caution for the gun he had dropped.  He clutched the Sig now, and, sucking wheezing breaths  _ in out in out, keep breathing, John, keep fighting _ he raised the gun.  His arm was perfectly steady as he sighted down the barrel and fired.  

Mary shuddered as the bullet buried itself in her back.  She staggered, slumped.  Swayed back on her heels, fighting for control, for life.  Teetering around, she stared at John with something like awe.  

John’s second bullet found her forehead, killing her instantly.  Mary crumpled in a heap and her grip around Rosie slackened.  The baby gave a piteous wail as she fell to the gap between the railing and the platform of the walkway’s top step, swayed on the ledge.  Fell into gravity’s inexorable grip.  Sherlock threw his arms over John, trying to shield him from the sight—but then Alexander was there, limping too fast, losing his balance but catching Rosie in his arms and twisting as he fell.  He landed on his back with the baby clutched to his chest, squalling but unharmed.  

The Cessna’s engine died as quickly as it had come to life.  The crewmen’s confused shouts filled the air.    Sherlock looked to Winter, lying dead on the concrete.  Alexander, cradling Rosie to his chest with an empty look in his eyes.  Mary, dead on the walkway.

John.

“John!” he cried.  His voice was rough with agony and raw from screaming.  “John, she’s dead.  You did it.  Rosie is safe.”

John said nothing.  He lay motionless, arms at his sides, the Sig slipping from his loosened grasp.  Sherlock swallowed back a sob of pain and braced his weight on his good knee so he could grip John’s shoulders and tip him onto his side.  Blood trickled down his ribs, soaking his shirt.  Sherlock pressed his palm to the spot, felt the warmth of John’s life seeping through his fingers.  

A high, tinny scream of sirens pierced the night.  In the distance:  flashing lights.  

“John,” Sherlock murmured, “the police are coming.  They’ll have an ambulance along, too.  Police are idiots in general, but th-they’ll have an ambulance.  John?  Can you hear the sirens?  John?”

No answer – only stillness and silence.  The black spots at the edges of Sherlock’s vision feathered out, spreading like mold.  Blood loss, pain, shock.  He clung to consciousness with every scrap of willpower he possessed, but he could feel his strength fading.  

“John?”  His voice slurred and dragged along the syllable.  The scream of sirens was gone, lost to the slog of his pulse behind his ears. All he had was the weight of John’s body and the warmth trickling down his palm.  “John?”

“John?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence, gore, child endangerment, and character death.


	14. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for character death. Also, apologies for this chapter being roughly twice as long as usual!
> 
> I'm Zingiberis on Tumblr.

 

John knew there was no hope for Mycroft.  Had known it the moment they found him lying on the table, his gut a red, ragged mass of ravaged wool and flesh.  Death hung in the air, a foul miasma that conjured memories of the stink of bleach and rotting wounds, the grit of sand beneath his fingernails.

His hand flexed with a phantom sensation.  It had been a joke, among him and his army mates, that in Maiwand you could scrub and scrub in the shower but you’d find sand behind your bollocks the second you stepped out of the stall.  

 _Using humor to deflect, Watson?_ _Ha-bloody-ha._

There was no hope for Mycroft, and still John let Sherlock pretend.   _“John will take care of you,”_ he had said, as if he could stall death with sheer conviction.  Sherlock Holmes:  Virtuoso of Miracles.

John had asked for a miracle, years ago.   _“Just for me, just stop it.  Stop this.”_

Sherlock had heard John, and he had given him that miracle.  He’d come back.  And all John could do was give Sherlock a sliver of hope.  It was a doomed hope, as slender and frail as a winter-waned twig.  John could snap it in two with a word.  He could give Sherlock the plain, cruel truth and urge him to help him find Rosie.  Focus on someone who could be saved.

But Sherlock had looked at him, and John felt his misgivings crumble.  It was a look of fear and vulnerability, one that clamped John’s jaw around his words.   

John let Sherlock go.  He would regret it later – _the gunshot and the scream, cutting right to the heart of him_ – but Sherlock vanished into the corridor and John stayed behind.  

His hands were steady as he tore strips of cloth and tied tourniquets.  It felt more like a ritual than medical care.  With each knot tied, the bleeding was stemmed and the life choked off from the limb.  Killing Mycroft in pieces.  

The elder Holmes brother coughed weakly, face contorting in pain.  John tied off the last tourniquet and set a soothing hand on his wrist.  The blood crusting on his fingers smudged the wool sleeve of Mycroft’s suit jacket.  John felt a little guilty about that; Mycroft was nothing if not fastidiously neat.  

“Doc…tor.”  His voice was a rattle of dry sticks in a breeze.  “Watson.”

“Yes,” said John.  “I’m here.”

“My brother.”

“Gone.”  A weight of worry draped over John as he spoke.  “Gone to find Mary and Rosie.”

Mycroft’s eyes slitted open and regarded John with an impassive look.  Even dying, he was infuriatingly calm.  “I’m sorry… I couldn’t protect… your daughter.”

John pressed his lips into a thin line.  He could think of nothing to say.   _Why couldn’t you protect her?  All your power and influence, and you can’t look after one baby?  Oh, don’t worry, you did everything you could.  That’s all that matters._

“Sherlock is on his way,” was all he managed.  Injecting false conviction into his voice, he added, “He’ll stop Mary.”

Mycroft sucked in a wheezing breath and heaved a pained, wrenching cough.  A line of red spittle dribbled from his lips, replacing what Sherlock had so carefully wiped away.  “I’m afraid… I must ask a favor.”

“What is it?”

“You must protect… my brother.”

John sat back abruptly and reached for his jacket, digging into its pocket for his mobile.  “I’ll call 999.  See if we can get you to hospital.”

“There isn’t enough…”  Mycroft trailed off, blinking dazedly, and whispered, “…time.”  His look wasn’t impassive, John realized.  It was resigned.  “Promise…”

“It,” John began, bit his lip.  Paused.  “It isn’t that simple.  I’m not—I’m not good.  I’m not a good person.  Sherlock deserves—”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft rasped, “needs you.”

John fell silent, dropping his gaze to his bloodied hands.  God, but he was a fucking selfish bastard, arguing with a dying man.  Even if that dying man was one of the most manipulative people he had ever met.  He nodded, resolute.

“I will.”

“Swear to it.”

“I promise,” said John, “I will protect Sherlock at all costs.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched into a faint, fleeting smile.  “Thank you.”

 

-

 

He died minutes later.  He had been right – the ambulance would never have made it in time.

 

-

 

And then John was tearing across the dark field toward the hangar.  He remembered the brittle air lashing his face as he ran down the slope, guided by the cold, sterile light that poured from the open doors.  He remembered the crack of a gunshot and Sherlock’s scream cutting through the night air.  The sound twisted something within John past the point of pain and self-preservation – he had only a bone-deep instinct to _run, run faster, get to Sherlock, save Sherlock._

There came another scream and then he was in the hangar, and Mary was there, Rosie bundled snugly in the crook of her arm.  The muzzle of a gun pressed into her silk-fine hair.  Mary talking, a monster disguised as a man appearing at the door.  His grin like a knife as he looked down at Sherlock.

And then pain stitching along John’s ribs, ripping through his body.  He couldn’t breathe – each inhale and exhale whistled a crescendo of agony.  Him falling, Sherlock shouting.  A gunshot.  Mary climbing the stairs as the Cessna’s engine roared to life.  

The weight of the Sig in John’s blood-caked hands.  He raised the gun, vision tunneling as he took aim.  The kick of recoil.  The detonation of the shot.

And then – nothing at all.

 

-

 

Pain, sharp and sudden like a blade between his ribs, slitting a gasp from his throat.  He gulped, choked.  A tube was wedged between his teeth and down his trachea.  Blinding light flooded in as he opened his eyes and he clamped them shut, cringing against the intrusion.  Bright halos seared the backs of his eyelids.  Each failed breath dragged in a lungful of panic and _no air, no air!_

John convulsed with a breathless shout.  Distantly, he was aware of a screech and a clatter.  A rumble of sound, growing and sharpening into a shout.

“…ohn!   _John_!”

John pawed at the mask, desperate to rip out the tube, to _breathe._  Hands came down on his, pinned them to his sides.  He thrashed and tried to lift himself off the bed, but a starburst of fresh pain exploded in his side and he fell back, choking raggedly.  

A clamor of voices filled his ears and drowned out the first shout.  Beyond that, a beeping and whirring and racket of voices muffled his senses in a fog.  He summoned all his strength to throw the hands off of him, but all he managed was a weary wriggle.  The hands held firm.  

“…lung’s collapsed,” a new voice announced.  The authority in their tone rose above the din.  “Have to place a chest tube.  Dr. Watson?  Dr. Watson, can you hear me?”

“John.”  A low, strained murmur.

“You’ll have to leave, sir,” the other voice said.  “Your nurses must be looking for you.”

“If they weren’t all so dim-witted, they would have found me by now.”

“That’s enough.  Get him out of here.”

John tried to speak; his throat swallowed around the tube and fire spread through his chest.  The hands released him and his entire body juddered, unmoored without the anchoring contact.  

“Local,” the second voice barked.  

More hands, pushing John onto his side and dragging his left arm over his head.  The air was cool against his bare skin.  A chilling swipe, the bite of a needle.  Blessed numbness.  The fractals dancing behind John’s closed eyes gave way to blotting darkness.  

 

-

 

_“John will take care of you.”_

What a laugh.

John had loudly denied Sherlock’s importance to him at every raised eyebrow and every suggestive remark.  John had called Sherlock a machine and abandoned him in his hour of need.  John had hit him when he came back from the dead.  John had married the woman who would put a bullet in Sherlock’s heart not one month after the ceremony.  And after that, John had gone back to Mary.  Tried to make a _life_ with her, as if killing Sherlock could be brushed aside.  Forgiven.

John had pushed and pushed Sherlock until he was at arm’s length, until he was past it, until he was gone altogether.  Off to wreck himself with morphine and cocaine and whatever-bloody-else he could get his hands on.  And when Sherlock needed him – needed John to drag him back from the precipice – John had hit him.  Again.

John had been powerless to stop Mary from shooting Sherlock a second time.  He’d stood by, useless, _helpless_ , as Mary held a gun to his daughter’s temple.

John couldn’t take care of anyone.

 

-

 

It was the steady thrum of the heart monitor that woke John, each _beep-beep_ drawing him up from the murk of sleep by degrees.  His veins fizzed pleasantly, as if the blood had been drained out and replaced with champagne.  With a sort of muted amusement, he realized he was drugged to the gills.  

“Oh!”  A titter of shock and joy, and Mrs. Hudson was rushing to his side, hands a pair of restless birds before her.  “You’re awake!”

“Hmm.”  

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m…”  His voice crackled.  He was parched.  

Mrs. Hudson understood.  She darted across the room to the nurse’s sink and rifled through the cupboards.  She found a paper cup, filled it with water from the tap, and brought it to John.  Cold to the point of pain: he drank until he could feel a headache building behind his eyes.  He set the cup down with a sigh.  

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”  

Mrs. Hudson waved a hand.  “It’s nothing.  Now, how do you feel?”

“Mm… fuzzy.”

“Well, that’s to be expected.  You’re on quite a lot of morphine.”

“Hmm, yeah.  Nice.”

“‘Spect you’ll be grateful for that when the tube in your willy comes out.”  Mrs. Hudson’s eyes gleamed with mischief and John cringed, reaching for the scratchy blanket draped over his lap.  “Oh, John, don’t be a clot.  I’m not going to take a peek.”

John drew his hand back with a wary look, but Mrs. Hudson only took a seat beside the bed, raising her hands with placating innocence.  “Besides, if I’m perfectly honest, dear… you’re getting quite rank.  I’ve a feeling that taking that blanket off would be like… oh, I don’t know.  Unsealing an ancient sarcophagus, I suppose.”

In a woolen, hazy way, John was aware that he should be offended.  He narrowed his eyes at Mrs. Hudson and slid perilously close to slumber; he started with a jolt.  “ _Woo_.”

Mrs. Hudson gave him a put-upon look.  She made a bit of a show of looking at the IV bag hanging at John’s bedside and arched an eyebrow.  “Strong stuff, that.  You forget when you haven’t tried in a while.  Herbal soothers only go so far.”

“S’mine.  No stealing.”

“You _are_ funny.  At least Sherlock was a little more coherent, but with a history like his—”

“Sherlock,” John gasped.  He felt as if the cold water sloshing in his belly had seeped into his veins, dousing the fizz of morphine.  “Is he…”

“He’s fine,” said Mrs. Hudson hastily.  She paused and chewed on her lower lip.  “Well.  As fine as you can be with a broken leg, but with Sherlock, that’s finer than most.  Getting a bit manic, though.  Can’t dash about on crutches, I suppose, but he does hobble very quickly.  Drives his physiotherapist mad.  I told him – Sherlock, not the therapist – ‘Sherlock, you can’t dash about forever, so maybe you can look at this as a wake-up call,’ but you know him…”

John’s focus dripped away and he rested back against the pillow, letting Mrs. Hudson chatter on.  Sherlock was okay—well.  He was alive, and evidently as much of a maniac as usual.  

“Mr. Garrideb is alive, too,” said Mrs. Hudson.  “Missing a few fingers, but like my Frank always said, nobody needs _all_ their fingers.”  John looked at her vacantly and she shrugged.  “Knew that was eating you up inside.”

“Not really,” John said.  He felt vaguely guilty, not because Mr. Garrideb had been taken captive and tortured, but because he had completely forgotten about the shopkeeper.  “Just as well.  Bit of a prick.”

“John!”  Mrs. Hudson’s scandalized tone was belied by a smile.  

“He got off easy.  I was shot.   _Again._ ”

At those words, Mrs. Hudson’s smile faded.  She sat in the chair beside John’s bed and took his hand.  “I should say, John.  You’re out of the woods for now, but it was a bit touch and go for a while.”

“Oh?”

“Your heart stopped.”  Her voice was quiet, almost inaudible.  As if uttering John’s brush with death would summon it back like an unwelcome ghost.  “Twice.”

“Ah.”

“You had to be resuscitated.  Sherlock was a mess about it – always underfoot and barking at doctors and nurses like a madman.  If he hadn’t been for his leg, he would probably have been escorted from the premises.”

“How long have I been here?” said John, trying for a neutral tone.

“About a week,” said Mrs. Hudson.  She furrowed her brow, mouth twisting.  “Eight days.”

Eight days.   _Jesus._  “And Rosie?  Is she—”

“She’s fine,” Mrs. Hudson was hasty to assure.  “That dishy detective inspector, DI Lestrade, he and Ms. Hooper are looking after her.  Sweet girl, really – Molly, I mean, not Rosie, although Rosie is lovely for a baby.  You understand.  Anyway, they’re quite smitten with Rosie.  Nothing but praise.”

John suspected a part of this narrative was embellished.  Rosie could be cantankerous with strangers at the best of times.  In fact, aside from himself and Mary, the only person he could recall Rosie actually _liking_ was Alexander.  

A memory unspooled in John’s mind:  Alexander standing on the hangar floor, pleading with Mary.  Helpless with love for her, he had been willing to trade anything for her presence in his life again.  Had been willing to forgive her.

_And I killed her._

“Have you… seen Alexander?”

“Oh, once or twice,” said Mrs. Hudson.  “ _There’s_ another dish, let me tell you.  I always did like the rugged types.”

“And he seemed… okay?”

Mrs. Hudson shrugged.  “Oh, I don’t know.  He doesn’t say much, you know.  Which is fine, only I couldn’t get much of a read on him. However...”  Her brow knitted.  “I caught a glimpse of him when he thought nobody was looking, and.  Well.  He looked very sad.”

A niggling question wormed through John’s morphine haze.  “And Sherlock… has he been here?”

Mrs. Hudson averted her gaze to her hands clasped in her lap.  She plucked at a nonexistent speck of dust on her skirt.  “Well, it’s like I said, isn’t it?  Always dashing about, never stops to rest.  That’s just Sherlock.  And he was busy organizing his brother’s affairs for a time…”

“So he hasn’t.”

John regretted the words the moment they left his mouth – he sounded like a complete twat.  He sighed and closed his eyes, willing sleep to overtake him.  If he dozed off, Mrs. Hudson might take pity on him and leave.

John was surprised when her hand returned, resting lightly atop his.  “John,” she said softly, “I was—I was so angry with you for treating Sherlock the way you did, but I’m not.  I’m not angry anymore.  Sherlock told me that horrible man was going to shoot him – James Winter?  And you made him stop.”

“Didn’t do that,” John mumbled.  “Alexander got him.”

“But you made him stop,” Mrs. Hudson insisted.

John made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat; he was too tired to argue.  All he had done was redirect Winter’s attention for a few seconds – long enough to get shot, at any rate.  It would have been a pointless effort if Alexander hadn’t arrived.  

“Sherlock will come ‘round,” said Mrs. Hudson.  “I know he will.”

John barely registered her words.  His mind was trapped on a loop with two images, veering and circling around and around like a jammed carousel roundabout.  Rosie, slumbering and oblivious as the muzzle of Mary’s gun kissed her temple.  Sherlock lying on the hangar floor, curled around his injury.  

“Maybe he shouldn’t,” John slurred.  He could feel the morphine carrying him off, off to a peaceful, blank place.  

“What was that?  John?”

But John was already asleep.

 

-

 

Later, when his drug-induced slumber had ebbed for a spell, John asked a nurse for his chart.  The nurse hesitated, eyes darting toward the door to the bustling hallway beyond, and John mustered a smile that had charmed many women and a few men three continents over.  

“Please?” he implored, letting a mischievous quirk tug at his lips, like he and the nurse were in together on a little secret.  Again the nurse hesitated, but after a moment, a tremulous smile lit her face and she crossed to the desk on the wall opposite of John’s bed.  Rifling through a drawer, she found the chart and presented it to him.  

“Thank you,” he said, meaning it.  

The nurse flushed prettily and smiled.  “Just don’t tell, all right?”

“‘Course.  I won’t tattle.”  John debated winking, but suddenly felt as if all the energy had gone out of him - his insides were leaden and sticky with dread for the knowledge he held in his hands, an obscure sense of shame.  

When the nurse was called out to attend to another patient, John steeled himself and looked at his chart.

The damage had been… well, “extensive” seemed a pitiful descriptor for the bloody path Winter’s bullet had carved through his body, but it was removed, sterile, and John needed that.  Needed the cool, clinical distance of a doctor to keep himself from dissolving into a gibbering mess.  Winter’s bullet had struck his left eighth rib, ricocheting off the bone to rupture his spleen and burrow through his liver.  The damage to his spleen had been mild – just a little nick, so he got to keep it, thank you very much – but the lacerated liver had been another matter.  His right hepatic vein had been torn, causing a massive bleed, and the bullet had lodged in the pleural cavity of his right lung.  John had died once on the way to hospital and a second time on the operating table.  But his doctors had been skilled, and fate – or luck, or God, or the cruel trickster who wasn’t finished toying with his life – did not intend for him to die.

John had survived.  Again.

Now – pumped to bursting with painkillers and antibiotics and blood transfusions and tubes – John was grateful he’d been unconscious for the whole harrowing ordeal.  He remembered, with a sort of threadbare nausea, watching in stupefied horror as Sherlock plummeted from the rooftop of Bart’s Hospital to break on the pavement below.  Remembered fumbling for a pulse in that limp, still-warm wrist.  

 

-

 

Two days later, John’s doctor decided it was time for the catheter to come out.  The process was brief and the nurse perfectly competent, but it still hurt like hell, and John was acutely aware of the high whistling between his teeth as he bit down on the pain.  When the ordeal was over, he lay back in his bed, sore and miserable.  His gaze drifted to the empty seat beside his bed.  

“Your scans are encouraging,” his doctor said, later.  A grave, fastidious sort of fellow, his face was pinched as he studied the chest X-ray and CT scan on his computer monitor.  The look he turned on John was stern, as if John was a reckless child who had fallen off his bicycle and broken his arm.  “You may be stable, Mr. Watson, but the road to recovery will be a long one.  Gunshot wounds take time.”

“Yes, ta,” said John tersely.  Guilt nudged at him, but it was gouged up by the claws of pain taking over his side.  His doctor had also decided to lower his morphine dose, and while John’s medical mind appreciated the sense in that, the base, animal side of him wanted to hunker down in a dark place, hide away from the pain.  “I’ve been shot before, actually.  I know how this works.”

The doctor chewed on his lip and tapped his feet against the floor.  “Right, yes.  Well, then, I’m sure you’re aware that it will take a long time for you to return to full physical function.”

“Yeah,” said John.

“Months, certainly.  Possibly even a year.  We must also discuss pain management strategies, physiotherapy, and so forth.”

“Right.”  John was suddenly exhausted, as if a boulder had rolled over him, crushing him with its immense weight, suffocating him with dust and grit.  He wanted to be left alone.  He wanted to sleep.  He wanted Sherlock at his side.  

“And…”  The doctor paused, shuffling his feet.  Chewed on the inside of his cheek.  “Your mental health may suffer as well.  Nightmares, hallucinations, that sort of thing.  In particular, we should monitor for symptoms of PTSD.  I will refer you to a few therapists that I… Mr. Watson?  Mr. Watson, are you laughing?”

 _‘Doctor,’_ John thought, but the words twisted into a chuckle when he opened his mouth to speak.  Each rumble of laughter was like thunder gathering under his ribs, lightning bolts scorching through his nerves.  

“Mr. Watson?”  The doctor was beginning to look seriously concerned.

“Sorry,” said John, wiping welling tears from his eyes.  “It’s only-- well.  It's nothing.”

 

-

 

Molly and Greg visited the next day bearing gifts:  flowers (Molly), a stale cheese and tomato pasty, and a paperback of _A Game of Thrones_ (Greg, no doubt hastily procured at the Pasty Shop and WHSmith at Paddington Station).  Thanking them, John set the flowers and pasty aside, making a mental note to bin the latter the moment they left.  He thumbed through the book while they took seats beside the bed.

“Mrs. Hudson told me you’re looking after Rosie,” he said.  “Thank you.  That’s, um.  No small feat.”

Molly waved a hand.  “We’re not bothered.  I’m her godmother, after all.  Besides, she’s so sweet.”

The bags under her eyes gave lie to her words, but John decided not to be churlish.  He smiled tightly and said, “Well, thank you.  I hope you aren’t paying out of your own pockets to keep her fed and clothed.  You can go to the house and pick up anything you need.”

“Already done,” said Greg.  “Sherlock had everything – food, clothes, the whole lot – sent over as soon as he was out of surgery.  Also sent us a little of his own money, I think.  Probably him trying to make up for being a shite godfather at the start.”

He smiled, encouraging a joke, but John felt the little humor he had evaporate.  The weight of shared knowledge settled upon the three, stifling and immense.  They all knew why Sherlock hadn’t been to Rosie’s birth or christening.

Molly said, a little too brightly, “And that big fellow, Alexander?  He’s been around quite a lot too.  At first we didn’t know what to make of him, but Sherlock said he was fine, so.  He and Rosie get along very well.”

“Christ, don’t they,” Greg agreed.  “There was one night, Wednesday, I think, when she just wouldn’t go to sleep.  Determined to scream the bloody building down.  But then Alexander appeared like some kind of magician, rocked her a little, and that was that.  Sound asleep.”

Oddly enough, John could believe that.  Alexander had managed Rosie very well when Mr. Garrideb’s shop was attacked.  On a cosmic level, it had been a cruel joke – Alexander couldn’t have known he was holding the daughter of the woman he loved, the half-sister to his own dead child.  How was he processing that discovery, and how did Rosie factor into it?

“Has he been,” John said carefully, “I dunno, asking questions?”

“What kind of questions?”

“About Rosie and…”  He paused, weighing her name in his mind.  He wanted to trust Molly and Greg, but he didn’t know how much Sherlock had told them.  

“About Mary?” Greg supplied.  John’s eyes widened and he shrugged, looking a little abashed.  “Mate, give me a little credit.  I _am_ a detective.”

“And Sherlock turned in the memory stick,” Molly added.  Greg shot her a look of mock indignation and she smiled, amending, “You figured it out before then, of course.”

“Of course,” said Greg.  “But I’ll admit that memory stick helped.  Got us the hard evidence when all I had was a hunch.”

“She would have gone to prison for the rest of her life,” said Molly.  “If that madman Winter hadn’t shot her, that is.”

John blinked.  “That—”

“Is exactly what happened,” said Greg firmly.  “I had the best of my forensics team work that scene.  Anderson was quite clear that James Winter shot Mary.”

“Sherlock agreed,” Molly put in.

Greg snorted.  “Should’ve seen Anderson’s face when he said ‘well done.’  I thought he was going to faint.”

John schooled his features into a look of detachment.  He’d killed a woman with an illegal handgun, and not in self-defense.  If the Met was willing to look the other way, he had better not push his luck.

With a sense of surreality, he said, “Have you seen him?”

“What, Anderson?”

Molly nudged Greg with her elbow.  “Sherlock’s been… quite busy,” she told John.  “He’s been keeping to himself, mostly.  Up at 221B.  And he  had to meet with his parents to discuss Mycroft’s…”  She trailed off, eyes downcast.  

Greg propped his elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced.  “Y’know, I never met Mycroft in person – only ever talked to him on the phone.  I thought he was a bit creepy and intense, but then, that’s what I thought about Sherlock, too.”  A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth and vanished.  “Sherlock was always complaining about Mycroft.  You’d think they had the biggest family feud going on since… I dunno, the Boleyns.  But since Mycroft… well.  Sherlock’s been different.  Quieter.”

Worry ate at John.  “Has anyone been ‘round to see him?”

“I went,” Molly said.  “We talked a little, but I could tell he wanted me to leave.”  She bit her lip, pensive.  “One good thing that’s come of all this… I think he’s getting through withdrawal.  The symptoms were very clear.  We've got you to thank for that, John.”

 

-

 

After Greg and Molly left, John sat restless in his bed, thoughts tumbling through his mind like broken icicles:  cold, piercing.  He tried to banish them by starting _A Game of Thrones,_ but he couldn’t focus past the first few lines of chapter one.  Setting the book aside, he laid back and stared at the ceiling.  

_You made him stop._

_We’ve got you to thank for that, John._

Everyone was clambering to pin a medal of valor on John and he’d done nothing to deserve it.  They didn’t understand.  They hadn’t seen him hit Sherlock.  They hadn’t seen him shoot Mary in the back, heedless of the baby in her arms.  His baby.  His _child,_ whose life he had put at risk to take revenge.

Sherlock and Rosie:  the two vibrant threads running through the colorless skein of John’s life, inextricably interwoven by his actions.  They illuminated him and brought vivid hues to his dull existence.  In return, he had sought to unravel and uproot them.

John’s thoughts turned to the papers Mycroft had given him, the papers meant to erase Mary and give Rosie a new mother.  Between those pages lay a fantasy:  a new life.  

 

-

 

It hit John hours later that he had missed Mycroft’s funeral.  

 

-

 

“Hello?  Um, yes.  Yes, quite well, thank you.  As good as can be expected.  Um, listen.  I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to, and I completely understand that, but.  I’m… I’m not sorry for what I did.  Not about Mary, anyway.  You know neither of us would have ever seen her again if she’d gotten away.  I still believe that, in her way, she loves… loved Rosie.  But Rosie wasn’t…  Yes.  Okay.  Yes.  Greg and Molly told me, yeah.  Thank you for that.  And thank you for… what you did.  Saved me and Sherlock, probably.  Hm.  Oh, you’ve seen him?  Is he…  No, he hasn’t.  Christ, I don’t know.  I’m not a bloody prophet.  He’s always leagues ahead of the rest of us, so why bother trying if I’m just going to look like an idiot?  …Sorry.  Been stuck in hospital for nearly two weeks.  It does things to your head.  Anyway, um.  I wanted to ask you… Christ.  I can’t believe I’m even considering this.  It’s mad.  Um, yes.  But, look, before I say anything, you need to know that you can take time to… consider.  I’ll need time, too.  I just wanted to put the thought out there.  Well, it is huge.  Jesus.  I still can’t… no.  Just got to say it.  Sorry, talking to myself.  It’s mad.  This is all mad.  But I’ve given it a lot of thought.  I can’t do it myself.  So, um.  Here it is.”

 

-

 

John was discharged from hospital at the end of the second week, free to leave but bound to a long road of medication and physiotherapy and probably a session or ten of therapy.  He sat in the waiting room, meandering through chapter two of _A Game of Thrones_ while he waited for Mrs. Hudson to pick him up.  

Mrs. Hudson arrived precisely when she said she would.  When she led him into the car park, one hand resting protectively on his right arm – his uninjured side – John looked about, not knowing what to expect.  

“Will we be picking up Rosie, too?” Mrs. Hudson asked as they walked.

“No.  Molly and Greg agreed to look after her until I’m… more adjusted.”  

“That was kind of them,” said Mrs. Hudson.  “Right here, dear.”   

John gaped at the violently red Aston Martin sitting before them.  “This is _yours_?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson said, chuckling at his amazement.  “Oh, come now, John.  Put two and two together.  I’m quite flush.”

John abandoned any pretense at dignity and looked at her imploringly.  “Can I sometimes borrow it?”

Mrs. Hudson beamed.  “No.  Now, in you get.”

The drive from St. Mary’s Hospital to Baker Street was a short one, but John couldn’t divert himself long enough to stop the nerves jangling beneath his skin, the stress curdling in his stomach.  He shifted in his seat and pain clawed at his side; he dug in his pocket for the bottle of oxycodone he’d been prescribed.  He stared at the label, debating whether or not to wait.  Did Sherlock keep drinks at the flat – whisky, wine?  

The car rumbled to a halt and John shoved the pill bottle back in his pocket.  He looked out the window and saw the façade of 221 rearing above, at once comforting and formidable.  

“I’ve got to take this to the parking garage,” said Mrs. Hudson.  “Can you manage the stairs on your own?”

“Parking garage?  Where do you keep this?”

Mrs. Hudson snorted.  “Wouldn’t you like to know.  Now.  The stairs?”

“I’ll be fine,” John muttered.  He extricated himself from the seat belt and opened the passenger door.  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.  “Again, John.  I should be the one thanking you.”

She sped off with a rev of the engine and a squeal of wheels.  Standing on the curb, John watched the Aston Martin vanish around a corner with a suspicion that he had fallen through the looking glass.  

“What the fuck,” he mumbled, and turned on his heel to enter the flat.  

The door clicked shut behind John as he stepped into the entryway.  The stairwell to 221B stood before him, limned by a bar of sunlight shining through the window on the first landing.  Dust motes drifted down to the ground floor.  

_That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done._

_And you invaded Afghanistan._

John climbed the stairs.

When he reached the landing of 221B, he was panting and shaking with the effort.  He was beginning to regret forgoing the oxycodone – the puckered flesh on his left side was on fire with pain.  Sucking a breath in through his teeth, he stood straight and reached for the doorknob.  

The door flew open and Sherlock was leaning awkwardly on a crutch in front of him, eyes wide, lips parted on an indrawn breath.  John took a step back and the pain spidered through his side.  His left leg crumpled and he fell, but Sherlock was there, leaning heavily on his crutch and seizing John under the elbow and hauling him upright.  John braced against the wall, panting and sweating.  Sherlock’s hand shook on his elbow.  After several moments, he found his footing and looked up.

Sherlock stared down at him.  The dusty light from the stairwell fell softly across his face, silvering pale skin and pale eyes with the faded touch of a tintype photograph.  Sunlight pouring in from the windows inside the flat haloed his hair with russet and honey.  Shadows hung under his eyes; his face was cut deep by hollows.  He was still far too thin.

He was beautiful.

“I was just,” he began.  Licked his lips.  “Can you walk?”

“Yeah, I…”  Bracing his weight between Sherlock’s hand and the wall, he took an experimental step.  “I think so.  Just need to get to my…”

Sherlock understood.  He nudged the front door wide open and ushered John inside, releasing his elbow but keeping close until they got to his armchair.  John fell into it with a sigh and rummaged through his pocket for the pill bottle.  A drink would have to wait.  

“Could you,” he began, but Sherlock was already gone, hobbling into the kitchen.  The muted thump of a cupboard door opening and closing was followed by a rattle and the hiss of running tap water.  Sherlock returned moments later with a full glass in hand.  “Thanks.”

Sherlock shrugged as John uncapped the bottle, tossed back a pill, and chased it with a glug from the glass.  He drank deeply.  Set the empty glass down with a sigh.  

“Look,” he said.

“I was just leaving,” Sherlock said quickly.  “Meeting with my lawyer about the Basingstoke estate.”  He began pivoting with his crutches, stopped, and pivoted back.  “Are you… comfortable?  Will you be able to…”

“I can move,” John said.  “Just need a minute.  But Sherlock, please…”

“I’ll be off, then.”  Sherlock’s tone was clipped, but not unfriendly.  

“Can’t it wait?  I have… well, I’ve got something important.  To talk about, I mean.”

“It can wait,” said Sherlock.  Was John imagining the fear that flashed through those silver-green eyes?  “You know how lawyers are.  Everything has to be just so.  She’ll throw a fit if I’m late.”

“Since when do you care about putting people off?”  When Sherlock began to argue, John let his dread for the impending discussion fill his voice.  “Please.  It won’t take long.  And for God’s sake, sit down.  That can’t be comfortable.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked toward the open door.  He looked like a cornered animal.  After a moment, he hobbled toward the door and shut it.  He hobbled back to his chair and set himself down with supreme caution, grimacing.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” asked John.

“Hmm.  Manageable.”  Sherlock’s voice was tight.  “Femur broken in two places.  I’ve enough metal in me to be magnetic.”

“Did they give you painkillers?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock shifted in his seat and winced.  “Pitched them.  Didn’t want the distraction.”

John thought of what Molly had said – that Sherlock was mid-way through withdrawal.  His resolve wavered.  Was he really cruel enough to do this when Sherlock was already in so much pain?

 _You’ve caused him enough pain,_ he reminded himself.  

“Best that I… get to the point, then,” said John.  “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Sherlock froze, but he did not look at John.  He made no response whatsoever.  

“It’s just,” John continued.  Christ, this hurt.  Every word hurt.  The pain in his side was a tickle by comparison.  “I think this would be best… for you.”

“Do you.”  Sherlock’s voice was scarcely a murmur.

“Yes,” John said, trying to sound firm, but each word was a rickety board threatening to break beneath him.  “I took some time to think about it, and I… I’m not a good person, Sherlock.  I’m a terrible fucking person.  I’ve done so many horrible things to you.”  

Sherlock said nothing.  John pressed on.  “You’ve saved me time and time again.  Christ, even when we first met, you saved me.  Did you know that?  You must have known that.”

Still Sherlock said nothing.

“I’ve done nothing but hurt you in return.  You don’t deserve that.  You deserve…”  Emotion clotted in John’s throat.  His eyes pricked.  “You deserve so much more than that.  Someone who, who would never dream of hurting you.  Who would only want _you._ ”

“I’ve hurt you.”  Sherlock’s voice was soft, but it cut through John’s speech as deftly as a sharpened blade.  

John laughed without mirth.  “Even when you hurt me, you were saving me.  Can’t say the same for myself.  Even when we…”  His voice cracked.  “Even when we were together, when I had you, I.  I fucked it up.  I was selfish.  I’m a doctor, and I didn’t think for a second to be careful with you.”

Sherlock was silent, unreadable.  John steeled himself for the final blow.

“So, I’m.  I’m going.”  His hands found the arms of his chair and gripped the upholstery.  “I’m selling the house in Chiswick.  After that, I… don’t know, really.  Might leave London.  I don’t know where I’ll go, but… I’m going.”

“I love you.”

The words – simple, unashamed – shook John to the marrow of his bones.  His heart thumped and his hands shook, not with nerves but with a terrible restraint.  He wanted to reach for Sherlock, to grasp and cling and hold.  It was only the echoing condemnation of his own words that held him back.  

“Sherlock…” He began, but could think of nothing to say.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock scooted forward until he was perched at the end of his armchair.  He reached over the space between them and laid his hands upon John’s knees, palms raised.  John fought the urge to cover them with his own, to entwine their fingers so tightly they could never be parted.  

“How often have I said it, John?” Sherlock murmured.  “’When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”  At John’s watery, disbelieving laugh, his lips twitched and he pressed on.  “I’ve applied my methods of deduction to this like I would any other case, and the outcome is clear.  I thought I was a machine.  Cold, analytical, unhampered by emotion.  I had only ever wanted the cases, the work.

“But then I met you, John, and I—I changed.  I saw an army doctor with too much spirit to squander among normal, boring people.  I dragged you under starlight and over rooftops and through the darkest shadows of London.  I thought it was all a lark.”  He smiled, crinkling his nose.  “I was so blind, John.”

“But you…”  John’s voice cracked; he swallowed past unshed tears.  “You see now.”

“I _saw_ ,” said Sherlock, “when James Winter shot you.  I saw when your heart stopped on the way to hospital, and the time after that, and when they cut you open because your lung had collapsed and your body was starving without the air.  I saw when you married Mary.  I saw when Jim Moriarty threatened to have you killed unless I killed myself first.”

John laid his palms down on Sherlock’s, compelled by a force like magnetism, like the metal and blood and bone and heart of Sherlock Holmes were attuned specifically to him.  Separately, they were forever straining and incomplete.  

Together, they were a phenomenon.

“I love you,” said Sherlock, “and when your heart stopped after Winter shot you, I felt as though I would go mad with grief.  For ninety-six seconds, you were, strictly speaking, dead.  Ninety-six seconds.  I was dead for two years.”  Full lips pressed together, bloodless with pressure.  “John, you may have hurt me.  But after knowing what it’s like to lose you, I will never forgive myself for letting you think I was dead all that time.  I may spend the rest of my life trying to earn your forgiveness, but I will never forgive myself.”  

“Sherlock…”  John looked at him through a sheen of tears.  “I might hurt you.”

“And I might hurt you.  But John, you and I – we’re our best selves together.  Please.”  Sherlock leaned forward and brushed a kiss, chastely, in his hair.  His voice rumbled in John’s ear.  “I want us to try again.”

The room fell silent, as if on a suspended breath.  Sherlock’s fingers closed around John’s; they held onto each other.  

“Okay,” said John.  “Okay.  Let’s… try again.”

 

-

 

Later, in the dark, they moved together, exploring with a quiet sense of awe that had not been present the first time.   Then, it had been frantic, needing, an affirmation that they were alive.  Now, it was careful.  John insisted they be careful.  

They had paused in the doorway of Sherlock’s room, fingers still interlocked, staring at the bar of light that fell across the bed and framed their silhouettes.  They hadn’t talked much after the initial conversation, but a thread had twined between them, spanning the gap in a way words could not.  Sherlock – brave, mad Sherlock – had taken the first step inside, pulling John gently behind him.  

It had been awkward, at first.  Between Sherlock’s leg and John’s side, their options were limited.  But after some shuffling and shifting and _ah, there, that’s better,_ they found a less painful way to rest on their sides, facing each other.  Clothing was peeled away, mindful of each other’s hurts.  Hands roved and lips quested, and it was gentle and careful even as the fire stoked between them, even as they pressed together, even as Sherlock insinuated his hand between their bodies to encircle them as they breathed and gasped and cried out.  After, Sherlock twined his arms about John, bleeding warmth from bare skin to bare skin, and pressed his face to the crook of his neck.  John felt his lips move, but no sound emerged.

“D’you say something?” he murmured.

Sherlock tilted his head.  “Somewhat.”

“You ‘somewhat’ said something.”  John gave Sherlock a wry look, decided not to bother, and pressed into the embrace.  He had an idea of what silent words Sherlock had breathed into his skin, but he didn’t dare guess.  He wasn’t ready to reciprocate.  

As minutes passed, their breathing evened out and the sweat cooled.  John was distantly aware of Sherlock draping a silk-soft blanket over them and burrowing closer, cocooning them in a little haven, safe from the outside world.  He knew he should move – get out of the bed, seek refuge in his own room – but he was exhausted, taxed physically and emotionally.  And Sherlock was so warm.

 

-

 

The next morning, John gave voice to a question that had been buzzing around his mind like a wayward gnat, too darting and clever to be squashed.  Walking into the sitting room from the kitchen with two steaming cups of tea, John paused, arrested by the sight of him.  Sherlock was curled in his armchair, laptop perched on his knees.  His dressing gown clung to his newly-showered skin, accentuating every sensuous curve and jutting angle.  John was beset by an urge to set down the tea, take Sherlock’s face in his hands, and kiss him long and deep.  He wanted to lick the column of that pale throat, see if he could taste a trace of the sweat that had beaded there the night before.  

John’s hands shook, threatening to spill the tea.   _Jesus Christ._

“I had,” he said, mortifying himself with a thin, telling rasp.  He cleared his throat.  “Um.  I was wondering why you hadn’t.  Hadn’t visited me in hospital.”

Surprise flickered across Sherlock’s face as he looked up from the laptop.  He said nothing for a few seconds, and John had to order himself not to backtrack.  If they were going to be… _together,_ they had to learn how to talk to each other, even if it felt like pulling teeth.  

“I…”  Sherlock trailed off, dropped his gaze, hiked it back up to meet John’s.  The flush of warmth from his shower was fading from his cheeks, as if a chill breeze had stolen into the room.  “I was afraid.”

The admission took John by surprise.  “You?  Afraid?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock’s voice was very small.  “On the way to hospital, when your heart stopped… I didn’t.  Didn’t cope well.  I believe I had to be sedated.”

“Oh.”

“And when you were in surgery, I may have… may have nicked a nurse’s badge to get into the wash room of the operating theatre.  And then you…”

“Oh, God.  You saw me flatline again.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide but vacant, as if reliving a horrifying scene.  “Yes.  And when you were finally out of surgery and _stable_ , they said you were stable, they promised… I was sitting at your bedside, and your lung…  Well.  I’m not a superstitious man, John, but even a fool knows that twice is a coincidence and three times is a pattern.  So, I.  I stayed away.”

John’s mind groped for something to say, something to make the fear in Sherlock’s eyes go away, but the only thing he could summon fell into the same sorrowful vein as death twice over, his life guttering out like a candle in a gale while Sherlock watched in helpless terror.  

“I’m sorry,” said John, haltingly, and handed Sherlock a cup of tea.  A quizzical look came into Sherlock’s eyes, dousing the fear.  Encouraged, John cleared his throat and clarified.  “I’m sorry I missed the funeral.  And I’m sorry that… I couldn’t look after Mycroft.”

“But you did.”

 _I watched him die._  “I didn’t do enough.”

“You did,” said Sherlock, firmly.  John settled into the seat opposite of him, wincing as pain skittered under his ribs.  Staring into the steaming murk of his own tea, Sherlock said, “You were there.”

John wanted to stand, to reach across the table and kiss the stubborn lines of sorrow away from Sherlock’s face.  He held himself back with no small effort.  “How was the funeral?”

Sherlock shrugged.  Wisps of steam uncurled between his cupped hands.  “It was a funeral.”

 

-

 

“John, really, it’s no trouble,” said Molly.  Her voice was bright over the line, but John was a new parent.  He had a good ear for notes of exhaustion.  

Glancing over his shoulder, John angled his gaze into the kitchen.  Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table with his crutches propped against the edge.  The table was coated snugly with plastic wrap, making it rumple and gleam.  Sherlock was rubbing something very dead and _very_ hairy against the tabletop.  

“Just for the week,” he said to Molly.  

“Okay,” said Molly.  She sounded sincere, if tired.  “Between us and Alexander, that should be fine.  You’re all right with him sitting for us, aren’t you?  It’s just that Greg and I both have work…”

John wasn’t prepared for the needle of hurt under his ribs.  He cleared his throat and said, “Yes.  Yes, of course it’s all right.”

“He’s been coming ‘round more and more,” said Molly.  “Rosie’s actually quite taken with him.”

The needle burrowed deeper, lancing and keen in his heart.  “I’ve got to go.  Thank you again, really.  It’s been a huge help.  And thank Greg for me too.”

“’Course,” said Molly.  “And really, it’s no bother.  You and Sherlock should focus on being mobile before you have a baby to look after.”

She rang off, leaving John with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.  He was still staring blankly at his mobile when Sherlock’s voice drifted out of the kitchen.  John started and raised his gaze, plastering on a smile.

“Hm, what?  What was that?”

Sherlock studied him for a few seconds of silence.  Then, flicking his eyes down to the hairy corpse, he said, “I take it Molly and George are doing well with Rosie.”

“His name isn’t… you know what, sod it,” said John, chuckling.  He moseyed into the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe, watching Sherlock prod the specimen.  “Um, yeah.  As well as can be expected.”    

“You’re worried about bringing her here.”

John was taken aback, more so by the suddenness of the statement than by any truth in it.  “No, I’m not worried.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, skeptical.  “You aren’t?  With all my experiments and body parts and shooting the walls?”

The needle buried still deeper; John’s fingers wound into fists at his sides, unwound with a forceful breath.  “I’m not.  Even if…  Well, I’m not worried.  I know you would be careful.”  God, but it was hard to speak freely with Sherlock, even when he knew it was allowed.  Encouraged, even.  “I know you would do that for me.  If… if I asked.”

Sherlock stood and peeled off his gloves.  Tossing them on the table, he turned and hobbled to the kitchen sink.  He balanced with one hand propped against the counter, using the other hand to reach for one of the green tiles in the recess.  The tile held for a moment, then came cleanly away in Sherlock’s hand, revealing a hole hewn into the wall.  There was a clink of ceramic as Sherlock set the tile down and reached into the hole.  A clear bag dangled between his fingers, its white contents sifting from side to side.  

“That’s…”

“The last of it.”  Sherlock fumbled one-handed with the bag until the seal split open.  Bracing his hips against the counter, he reached for the tap.  Water burbled.  Sherlock beckoned John closer.  When he obliged, the detective upended the bag and poured its contents down the drain in a powdery stream.  When it was done, he washed out the bag and binned it.  

“Well.”  He pursed his lips.  John studied him, but beyond firm resolve, he could see no hint that Sherlock regretted what he’d done.  “That’s the first step.  Moving my lab equipment to a safer place will take more time, but I hope you can appreciate the gesture.”

“Sherlock.”  John needed a moment to process what had just happened.  The past week had been a flurry of small gestures, soft and sweet and always surprising.  Cups of tea arriving at his side unasked.  Pain pills and glasses of water at all the appointed times.  Baked goods in paper bags with the tops crumbled shut:  croissants, cheese toasties, and once, memorably, a bacon and spinach quiche.  John slipped his hand over Sherlock’s.  “That’s… thank you.”

Sherlock turned off the tap and looked at him.  “John, I would very much like to kiss you right now.”

“Oh.”  A flush crept over John’s face.  “Well.  I could be persuaded to go along with that.”  He thought of the hairy thing and, seeing Sherlock lean toward him, added quickly, “But first, you have to wash your hands.”

 

-

 

The week unraveled in defiance of the normal passage of time.  John felt as if he and Sherlock were on a raft, borne along a river with no map to guide them.  Sometimes, the current dragged them through rapids, churning and chopping and threatening to throw them into the depths; other times, it was little more than a trickle.  

They went to the house in Chiswick and packed John and Rosie’s things.  The rest they sold or donated or binned.  And that was that.

Sherlock said he hadn’t touched drugs since before the fight with Mary.  John chose to believe him, but that made him no less worried about the detective’s gaunt face and rail-thin body.  Ravaged in body and mind by withdrawal, Sherlock had no appetite to speak of.  When John did coax him to eat, it was with a show of supreme resignation that he took a bite or two.  

This evening, John had ordered in – Chinese, a safe staple, and from one of Sherlock’s favorite restaurants.  One with a tarnished bottom third of the door handle. When the food arrived, he laid it out on the table by the sofa, hoping to tempt Sherlock into sitting, having a bite.  Maybe a bit of a snog.

The thought took John aback.  It had come so simply, as natural as breathing.  It felt as if he should have been thinking it for years – feeding Sherlock up, caring for him.  Loving him.  

The door creaked open, tugging John from his thoughts.  Sherlock stood in the doorway, watching him with a bemused expression.

“You ordered takeaway,” he said.

“That I did,” said John.  “Excellent deduction.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shed his coat.  He kicked off his shoes and strode to the sofa, where he folded himself in beside John.  The food was scrutinized with a wary eye.

“I can share, you know,” said John.  “I’m very considerate that way.”

“Not hungry.”

“Sherlock, I know you haven’t got an appetite, but you really do need to eat.  Please.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched in a moue of disgust.  John met his eye, cocking his head in a way he knew was cheeky but charming.  Sighing, Sherlock relented and reached for a box of orange chicken.  

Half an hour later, with the scavenged remains of their meal splayed across the table, Sherlock was still curled against John's side, knees raised to his chin like a child.  John didn't mind his weight; Sherlock was warm and pliant, if angular.  On the telly, Daniel Craig waged a threatening tête-à-tête with Javier Bardem.   

“It doesn’t have a taste,” Sherlock mumbled, his words puffing warm against the crook of John’s neck.

“What?”

“The food,” said Sherlock.  “It has no taste.  I’m never hungry and when I do eat, the food sits in my stomach like a stone.”

John turned to Sherlock, winding an arm around his shoulders.  “This is about Mycroft.”

Sherlock said nothing.  He stared emptily at the telly, where a shot glass tumbled into the dust.  “I keep expecting him to text and badger me about something or other.  Or for him to waltz in like he owns the place.”  He huffed in a sham of exasperation.  “He’s… he was always so infuriating.”

John searched for words of comfort and came up empty.  No words could fix this, mend Sherlock’s hurt – John knew this from his own experiences.  Hell, he knew it from mourning Sherlock’s death, sitting on this very sofa and thinking Greg and Molly and everyone else was full of shit when they said _I’m sorry for your loss_ and _It will be all right._  

It would never be all right.  Mycroft might have been an entitled bastard, but he had been Sherlock’s brother.  And now he was dead.  The grief of his loss couldn’t be taken away – but, given time, it could be carried.

John rested his head atop Sherlock’s, feeling the dark curls tickle his cheek.  “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what to _do_.”  The confession was soft but ragged.  

John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s temple.  “No one does.”

 

-

 

Near the end of the week, Molly and Greg found time in their schedules to bring Rosie to the flat for a visit.  She squealed when she saw John, smiling widely.  Steeling himself, John eased himself into his armchair and let Molly settle Rosie in his arms.  

“Oh, look,” said Greg, “she’s happy to see you.”

“Unlikely,” called Sherlock from the kitchen.  “At that age, an infant’s smile is more likely to be due to gas than happiness.”

“Thank you, Mr. Curry,” Molly sniped back.

“Who?” Sherlock called.

“It’s a book reference,” Greg mumbled.  “Been reading loads of children’s books lately.”  He raised his voice and answered, “It’s from Paddington Brown!”

A pause.  Then, dubiously, “From the station?”

“Never mind,” Molly muttered.  She rubbed her eyes and John felt a prickle of guilt.  Looking after an infant had clearly taken a toll on them.  

He looked at the wriggling baby in his arms and felt the prickle grow into a jolt, traveling from her warm weight through his hands and into his chest, his heart.  John was helpless with love for her.  His Rosie, his baby.  

_Am I doing the right thing?  Have I gone mad?  This can’t be right._

“We asked Alexander if he wanted to join us, but on such short notice…”  Molly shrugged.  “He’s quite busy getting ready to head back to America.  Said he had a lot of important things to sort out.”

John drew a steadying breath, praying his voice would not break.  “Right.”

“I’ll tell you, I was pretty surprised to learn the man owned a business,” said Greg affably.  “What was it, medical equipment?”

“Something like that,” said John.  He didn’t want to dwell on Alexander.  Thinking too much about him left room for doubt.  Too much room by far.  

“He’s a very… reserved person,” Molly ventured.

Greg nodded.  “Doesn’t say much.  But, John – and before I say anything, I have to clarify that I don’t think it’s dangerous, or, well, _weird_ at all…”

John gave Greg a hard stare, impatient for him to get to the point but unwilling to reveal his hand.  The DI sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.  “I’ve seen him looking at Rosie, and he… he gets this look…”

“He looks very sad,” Molly finished.  A pained look flitted across her face and she glanced toward the kitchen.  It was gone in a trice, but John knew who she had been thinking of.  “It just made us wonder what he had been through.”

“A lot,” said John.  He looked back down at Rosie.  She had fallen asleep, her tiny fingers curled around the cuff of his sleeve.  

 

-

 

Sherlock announced he was going out the next day, come hell or high water.  “Molly has a very interesting corpse for me.  Klinefelter syndrome.”

John frowned.  “Think you’ll be all right moving about?”

“Mmm.  Yes.”  Sherlock propped his crutches against the wall and pulled his coat off its hook.  “I’ll ask Molly to set up a chair beside the autopsy table.”

John nodded.  “Well, all right.  Thank Molly for being so accommodating, will you?”

“Molly adores me.”

“She tolerates you.”  On an impulse, John crossed the room, raised his good hand, and tugged Sherlock down for a kiss.  The detective drew back, looking dazed.  A faltering smile twitched across John’s mouth.  “I’ll see you later.”

Sherlock blinked once, twice.  “Ah.  Yes.  Later.”

John turned toward his armchair, pressing his palm against the rectangle of his mobile phone in his pocket.  Nerves crawled beneath his skin.

“John?”

John tensed.  He had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t realized Sherlock was still there.  He glanced over his shoulder.  Sherlock still stood in front of the door, face flushed with the kiss.  

“Yeah?”

“Are you… are you okay?”

_No.  I’m about to do something unspeakable._

“Yeah.  Why do you ask?”

Sherlock fidgeted, dropping his gaze to his clasped hands.  “No reason.  I’ll just—I’ll just go, now.”

“Okay.”  It took a great effort, but the smile John offered Sherlock was not entirely false.  “Try not to be back too late, yeah?”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally as he shuffled out.  The door shut with a snick, sealing John off from the rest of the world.  He hobbled to his armchair and sat with wincing care.  Tugging the mobile out of his pocket, he stared at the screen.  

_I can’t do this._

_I have to do this._

_It’s one of the most horrible things a person can do._

_It’s the right thing to do._

John thumbed through his Recent Calls list and tapped on an unmarked contact.  Raised the phone to his ear.  Listened as the tone droned on, on, on.  A part of him was itching for an answer; another part hoped the phone would never be answered.

A click, and a deep voice filled the other end of the line.  “Hello.”

“Hello,” said John.  “I’ve.  I’ve made my decision.”

He said everything that had to be said.  When the conversation ended, he hung up, shoved his mobile back into his pocket, and stood with a grimace.  Pain smoldered in his side as he stumbled into the kitchen.  Glass rattled in the cupboard.  Whisky sloshed, its scent sharp in his nostrils.  He brought the bottle back to his chair with him.  

John sat and downed the first two fingers in a few gulps.  Then he poured himself another glass and began to weep.  

 

-

 

He went out for a short walk, later.  With his walking stick tapping a steady rhythm against the pavement, he shuffled through the chaos of squealing wheels and bustling crowds to Regent’s Park.  Rainclouds gathered in the distance, feathering blue-grey over the sprawling immensity of London.  The surface of the boating lake was like a mirror, reflecting the roiling sky overhead.  The air was heavy and cloying with an imminent storm.  

John found a bench and sat with a sigh.  It was done.  Doubts had dwindled to white noise in the finality of his decision.  His every heartbeat hurt, as if he had taken a scalpel and cut out a vital piece.  He wondered if he could live without it, or if every beat from his moment on would be a step closer to the grave, a death of sorrow.  

When his fingers began to numb with the spring chill and the first few droplets struck his face, John stood and made his slow way back to Baker Street.  He wanted to brew a cup of tea and think about nothing.  Or perhaps some more whisky and a nap.

The door knocker was cockeyed when John returned.  Relief fluttered in his breast and he set to the stairs with single-minded determination.  When he reached the landing, he became aware of a frantic shuffling beyond the door.  Frowning, he reached for the knob.  

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock stood ramrod-straight in the middle of the sitting room, his expression pinched.  His hands were clasped behind his back.  “John.”

John tilted his head with a quizzical look.  He toed off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on its hook.  “Everything alright?”

“Yes, I…”  Sherlock trailed off and looked at his feet.  He was clad in black trousers and a navy button-up shirt.  The color brightened his eyes.  “I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

“Mm.”  Sherlock’s hands fell to his sides.  A sheaf of papers was clutched in one – an instruction manual?  Sherlock dropped it onto the floor with a flutter and took his crutches from where they were propped against the wall.  “This way.”

Sherlock led John into his bedroom.  As he passed the threshold, John saw a jumble of nails, screws, and bars on the floor.  Some of them had been put together, taking shape:  a railing, bars, a base.  His breath caught; he knew what Sherlock was building.  He had built one himself.

Sherlock rushed to fill the space.  “I know she already has one,” he said, “but I was doing some research and this model is top of the line, far superior to the old one.  Conforms to all the current safety standards and converts to a toddler bed.  It could even be converted to a teenager bed, if we get the frame and mattress.”

“Sherlock.”

“Also, it’s made from sustainable wood…”

“Sherlock.”  John’s voice was thin.  The fragile calm he had scrounged together over the past few hours crumbled, making his heart pound and throat tighten.  Tears filled his eyes.  “Oh, God, Sherlock.  I love you.  But Rosie isn’t going to be living with us.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened – whether from the first confession or the second, John had no idea.  “You love…”  He bit his lip.  “Is it because of me?  Are you worried she won’t be safe here?”

“That’s,” said John.  Tears smeared across his vision.  Lowering his head, he covered his face with one hand and drew a shaking breath.  Every attempt to speak was stoppered by the lump in his throat.  When he did manage it, the words were garbled and thick.  “That’s n-not it.”

“Then what is it?” Sherlock pressed.  John sensed him drawing close.  One large hand rubbed his shoulder.  “Is it the work?  I can take simpler cases for a while.  Safer ones.  I’ll do whatever I can to accommodate your daughter’s safety.”

“That’s just it,” John croaked.  Tears tracked down his cheeks and dampened his hand.  “I c-can’t… can’t be her father anymore, Sherlock.  I’ve given Rosie up for adoption.”

Sherlock stilled as silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of John’s ragged breathing.  Then, soft but shaking with disbelief, “Why?”

“I k-killed her mother, Sherlock.”  Each word followed in a torrent of shame, a need to admit to his sins even though he could never absolve himself.  “Mary was a monster, yes, and she might have killed her.  But that doesn’t change the fact that I m-murdered Rosie’s mother.  I shot her.  I shot her _while_ she was holding Rosie.”

“You wouldn’t have hit her,” said Sherlock.  “You’re a crack shot.”

“I couldn’t see Rosie when I fired the gun.  For that single second, I put my daughter’s life at risk to kill Mary.  I-it’s unforgivable.”  John shook his head.  Shapes and shadows floated through his vision, distorted by the tears.  “And what if I did raise her?  What if I raised her, with, with you, and she grew up knowing me as her father, and then—then she wonders what h-happened to her mum.  I can’t do that, Sherlock.  I can’t look my daughter in the eye and tell her what I did.”  His voice faded to a whisper-rasp as the last of his strength was stripped away.  “I’m not strong enough.”

Uttering those words broke a dam within him.  A surge of pent-up emotion flooded forth, making his shoulders shake with broken sobs.  Sherlock’s arms came around him in an instant.  As he wept, Sherlock rested his temple against the top of John’s head, murmuring softly as his hands stroked the nape of his neck, his back.  John wound his arms around Sherlock’s waist.  Without something to hold on to, he was afraid the grief would drag him under.  

It was several moments before John registered what Sherlock was saying: “It’s okay, John.  It’s okay.  I love you.  It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he croaked.  

“No,” Sherlock conceded.  “It isn’t.”  A pause; John could practically hear the gears turning in Sherlock’s head.  Then, with a clean, removed snap of deduction, he breathed, “Alexander.”

“Yeah.”  John scrubbed his face.  A pointless effort – he had been sorely mistaken to think he had cried himself out earlier in the day.  “H-his daughter was Rosie’s half-sister.  Effie.  She can’t be replaced, of course, but…”

“He loved Mary,” Sherlock said.  “He will love Rosie, too.”

John looked up, then.  Sherlock stared back at him, eyes shining.  He had been looking forward to it, John realized – looking forward to helping raise Rosie, to being a part of her life.  

John knew he had done the right thing.  It hurt more than anything he had ever experienced, but it had been right.  That didn’t stop him from feeling the guilt of tearing a potential future away from Sherlock.  

“You’re wrong, by the way,” said Sherlock tersely.  

John huffed a pained sort of chuckle.  “Yeah?  How am I wrong this time?”

“John Watson,” said Sherlock, “you are the strongest person I know.”

They said little after that, but continued to hold each other, arms clasped like chain links, never to be parted, stronger than iron, stronger than a hundred years of lives and deaths and a changing world spinning, spinning inexorably toward an unknown fate.  There were lifetimes for them, John knew with a burst of preternatural clarity:  lifetimes filled with cases and clients, Hounds and falls, criminals and Devil’s Feet, vampires and matchboxes and poisoned springs cased in ivory.  Lifetimes of gruesome, fantastical adventures that they had shared and had yet to share.  An incredible, immortal tale:  just the two of them against the rest of the world.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is over, but there is one more chapter to come on Friday - an epilogue. Thanks for sticking with me so far (and sorry about Mycroft)!
> 
> As I’m sure many of you noticed, I borrowed and tweaked the famous Sherlock Holmes quote from A Study in Scarlet : "There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it." I hope you look at this as an homage rather than blatant plagiarism. ☺


	15. EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find yourself wrong-footed by the epilogue, it might help to read the prologue a second time. :)
> 
> I'm Zingiberis on Tumblr.

 

The old woman is, amazingly, Mrs. Hudson.  She’s ancient, but she flits around like a little bird, energetic enough that I don’t worry she’s going to drop dead the moment I turn around.  After ushering me to an armchair, she bustles into the kitchen and sets a kettle to boil.  

“So,” she says, taking a seat on a sofa across from me, “what did you say your name was?”

“Cathy,” I tell her.  She peers at me with a hint of suspicion in her eyes and, feeling a bit like a criminal in a courtroom, I elaborate.  “Catherine Rosamund Grant.”

Mrs. Hudson’s expression goes slack.  “Oh.”

“What is it?”

Mrs. Hudson folds her hands neatly in her lap and studies me.  “You’re her,” she says at length.  “Rosamund.  Rosie.”

My heartbeat stumbles at the sound of the pet name.  Dad never calls me Rosie – only Cathy, or Catherine when he’s cross with me.  I grew up giving my middle name little thought.  It only became relevant when Dad sat me down – twenty-two and fresh out of college – and offered to give me the name of my birth father.

“If you want,” he had hedged.  His expression was neutral, but I knew him well enough to read the fear hidden in his dark eyes.  “It’s your decision.  You’re a grown woman.”

I had known all my life that I was adopted – Dad made no pretense otherwise, but it was fairly obvious at a glance that we couldn’t be related by blood.  Dad’s large build, dark skin, and dark eyes contrast sharply with my own short stature, fair coloring, and blue-grey eyes.  But Dad had always been cagey about my birth parents, though I had wormed it out of him after years of pestering that he’d known my mom.  My biological father, however, had remained a complete mystery.

I’d said yes, of course.  I love Dad, don’t get me wrong, but I need to do this.  The greatest orphan fulfillment cliché had been offered to me on a platter.  I couldn’t simply ignore it.

This is all so new – being in London, looking covertly for my birth father, being _Rosie._  It’s almost too fantastical to believe.  

“I… I was Rosie,” I say.  “But I’ve gone by Cathy all my life.”

“I see.”  Mrs. Hudson blinks, mouth working as if she isn’t quite sure whether to smile or not.  “And you grew up in America.”

“Er, yeah.  Seattle for a while, then San Francisco.”  I shift in the armchair, feeling upholstery creak beneath me.  

“I was in America for a time,” says Mrs. Hudson dreamily.  “Florida.  Disgusting state, but the capital punishment laws were top-notch.”  

I stare at her.  Dad didn’t mention anything about the landlady.  Then again, if Dad’s accounts – and the internet’s – have any merit, a woman who tolerated Sherlock Holmes and John Watson for upwards of three decades can’t be entirely right in her own mind.  

“I’m sure you’ve figured out why I’m here,” I say after a beat of silence.  “I’m looking for him.  For my biological father, I mean.  John Watson.”

Mrs. Hudson hums.  From the kitchen, a low warble rises into a keen as the kettle begins to boil.  The landlady stands without comment and bustles out to attend to it.  I can only wait, chewing on my impatience.  She returns a minute later with a bright smile.

“Ten minutes to brew,” she says.  “As for John, I’m afraid he and Sherlock no longer live here.”

This news gives me a start.  After my initial research of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes – the bulk done on John’s blog – the two had become inextricably interwoven with 221B Baker Street in my mind, as if there was no other place in the world they could exist.  

“Oh,” I say, stupidly.  Already my mind is racing to train tickets, the tentative date I’d picked for my return flight, the myriad tourist destinations of London I’d planned to explore.  “Do you know where they are now?”

“Mm.  Probably getting off the Tube.”

“What—”

A knock at the door interrupts me.  My stomach twists into knots.   _I was so wrong.  I’m not ready for this._

“Oops,” says Mrs. Hudson.  She hauls herself out of her chair with a little huff.  God, she must be pushing a century.  “Looks like I misjudged.  Wait here, will you?”

I begin a feeble protest, but Mrs. Hudson is already tottering toward the front door.  “Coming!”  The door creaks open, admitting a gasping clamor of the city and a pair of voices.  

“…shouldn’t be so hasty.”  A man’s voice, gentle but firm.  

“Oh, nonsense,” says Mrs. Hudson.  “I’ve only lived this long because I keep moving about, you know.  Anyway, enough about that.  How was the train ride?”

“Tedious.”  A second voice – deeper, rumbling around the three syllables.  “Nothing but a few cheating spouses and a pickpocket.”

“Uneventful,” the first man amends with a chuckle.  

“And the cottage?  How are the renovations going?”

“Dull, dull, dull,” the second man mutters.  “Mrs. Hudson, if we were half as fascinated by our kitchen as you appear to be, we certainly wouldn’t be taking two-hour train rides out of our way to avoid it.”

“Sherlock.”  A soft admonition.  Oh, God.  That one is John Watson.  My father.  “Sorry.  His leg gets stiff sitting for long periods of time.  Makes him tetchy.”

The second man – _Sherlock_ – grumbles unintelligibly, but doesn’t put up much of a fight.  There is a moment of silence, and then he says, “You’ve something to tell us.”

“Well, yes,” says Mrs. Hudson.  “Or rather, I have a guest with something to tell you.”  Her voice rises.  “Cathy?  Cathy, these are my boys – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

Swallowing back my fear, I stand and turn to face the doorway.  Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stand before me, looking back with polite curiosity.  Most of the pictures I unearthed in my online research were decades old, taken from the blog and news articles.  

Decades later, the two are still easily recognizable.  Mr. Holmes’ dark curls, though still thick, are greying at the temples.  His dark coat and trousers make him look sharp and dignified.  Wrinkles line his forehead, the corners of his eyes, and his mouth.  Odd, that – from what Dad told me, I thought Mr. Holmes a very cold man.  But it looks like he’s had much cause to smile and laugh in his life.

John – Father?  Dr. Watson? – has aged more noticeably.  The author picture in his latest book is recent, but shot in black in white, it shaves years off his true age.  His hair is all silver now, groomed in a way that seems both stylish and sensible.  He’s dressed in a cardigan that looks both cozy and well-made.  He, too, bears wrinkles that speak of happy years.  A little pang strikes under my ribs, making me feel selfish.  I shouldn’t hold giving me up and having a happy life against him.  

“Hello.”  My voice sounds weirdly high.   _Great first impression, Cathy._

John utters a little gasp.  “Oh.  Oh, my God.”  Then he’s reaching for Mr. Holmes, and Mr. Holmes takes his hand in a firm grip.  John’s face is drained of color.  For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to faint.  

“It’s all right, John,” says Mr. Holmes.  “It’s all right.”

John gapes at me, his eyes full of too many emotions for me to read.  I fidget, torn between the urge to go to him and a fear that he’ll push me away.  An apology clambers up my throat and I bite it back.  I’m not going to be sorry for this.

I choose my words with care.  “My dad told me about you.  My adoptive dad, that is.  Alexander Grant.  I… ever since I can remember, I wanted to meet you.  All orphans do… but then again, I suppose I’m not really an orphan, am I?”  A nervous laugh bubbles out of me.  I will myself not to bolt for the door and tear down the street, put this whole endeavor behind me.  “Dad, well, he never really said so, but I knew it hurt him.  Until he offered to tell me your name.  So, um.”  I gesture to myself, feeling small and silly and insignificant.  A cast-off child.  “Hello.”

A moment of silence stretches between us.  

And then Sherlock Holmes _scoffs._

“Good Lord, John,” he says.  “As if the resemblance wasn’t obvious enough.  Somehow she inherited your finesse with words.”

The laugh startled out of John is equal parts amusement and hysteria.  I bristle at the slight but keep my mouth shut.  At a glance, there are some generalities that tie me to John Watson – small builds, maybe something in the shape of our eyes – but nothing striking.  

“Resemblance?” I echo.

“To your mother,” says Mr. Holmes.  John’s lips thin.  His dark blue eyes dart from Sherlock to the floor and back in an endless loop.  I wish he would just look at me.  

“Who was she?” I press, pulling my attention away from him.  

“Oh,” Mr. Holmes shrugs, as if we are discussing the weather, “she was many things.  Assassin, super-agent, nurse, cat lover… the list goes on.”  He pauses and looks to John. “May I?”

John chuckles wearily.  He looks dazed.  “Ask her, not me.”

Mr. Holmes trains his intense focus on me.  “May I deduce you, Ms…. Grant?”

“Er.”  I blink and nod.  It seems churlish to refuse him after I’ve gone and ambushed them.  “Sure.”

His gaze meets mine, holds, and darts up and down my person.  There’s a sort of mechanical fixedness to it, as if he’s gathering bits of data and feeding them into a computer, generating a stream of results.  “You resemble your mother strongly, but you aren’t like her at all.  Not really.  You prefer dogs – large breed back home, I’m guessing a German shepherd – and you aren’t in a healthcare-related field, no.  Publishing.  Fresh out of uni, but clever enough and connected enough to have a good entry-level position lined up when you return.  Have I got it right so far?”

“Uh, yeah.”  I don’t know how I feel about being called _clever_ by probably the world’s cleverest man.  Is he being sarcastic?  “More or less.”

“You recently ended a relationship due to incompatibility issues,” he continued.  “And you suffer from mild anxiety.  You…”  His eyes narrow and a crease forms on the bridge of his nose.  “You’re a swimmer – freestyle, if I had to guess.”  He looks at me expectantly.  I nod, feeling the tension loose from my chest like a thawing icicle dropping to the ground.  

“All correct, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please.”

“Sherlock.”  The name feels funny on my tongue – too archaic and intimate.

Sherlock glances at John, and I realize he’s finally allowed himself to look at me.  He’s been watching me speak with stupefied awe.  Feeling self-conscious, I look down at my feet.  

“If you would be so kind as to sit, Ms. Cathy,” Sherlock begins.

“Just Cathy is fine.”

“Cathy.”  Sherlock’s lips quirk at the corners.  “I would like to deduce more about you, if you don’t mind.”  His hand squeezes John’s, almost absently, and I understand what he’s doing.  

“Okay,” I say, and reclaim my seat in the armchair.  Sherlock leads John to the sofa and they both sit.  I look around for Mrs. Hudson and realize that she’s vanished – must have slipped out during the initial shock of our meeting.  Before me, Sherlock leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers under his chin.  

Over the next half hour or so, Sherlock peels away details of my life, studying each one with the methodical care of a scientist before filing it away and choosing another.  It’s easy to lose myself in the scrutiny – it’s always easy to talk about yourself.  As Sherlock deduces, I do my own detective work.  His and John’s hands are still clasped, though neither appear to give it much thought; it’s a natural piece of the space between them.  Both wear simple bands on their ring fingers.  Every so often, one of my comments makes Sherlock glance covertly at John as he suppresses a smile.  I can practically hear the thoughts humming between them:   _Do you see?  Do you see how similar she is to you?_

It comes out that I’ve got a bad temper when I explain that I punched Alec O’Neill in the third grade for saying my dad wasn’t really my dad.  Sherlock beams.  “John once chinned an officer to defend my honor.”

John snorts at that, running his thumb over the pad of Sherlock’s hand.  The smiles appear more and more as Sherlock continues his deductions.  When I admit that I want to be a reader in a big publishing company and hope to write a book one day, he rolls his eyes.  “Oh God, John.  She really is just like you.  All romanticism.  Cathy, for the love of God, if ever a manuscript of _proper scientific value_ comes across your desk… do let me know.  I want to spare it the mistreatment my cases have suffered.”

“Oh, hush, you,” John says, extricating his hand from Sherlock’s to swat his thigh.  “’Mistreatment’ my arse.  My books sell quite well, thank you.”

Sherlock sighs, but he’s fighting to suppress a smile.  It’s a little daunting to watch them together, bickering and hand-holding and loving.  For all his derision of romanticism, Sherlock Holmes is completely imbued with it – one half of a whole, incapable of existing as a single unit.  

“Really,” says John, dropping his hand back down to Sherlock’s with a squeeze.  “Thank you, love.  It means a lot to me.”

Sherlock dips his head and purses his lips.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” says John indulgently.  He turns to me with a quavering smile.  “Ro-… Cathy.  You have a lot of questions.  I will answer as many as I can, but before we start, I have to say this:  letting you go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  I knew it was right, but my God…”  His voice cracks.  “It hurt.  Letting you go.  I felt like I’d ripped a part of my heart out.”

I bite my lip, unsure of what to say.  How do you respond to something like that?

“But,” John continues, “looking at you now, learning about you… I’m happy you’ve had a good life.  I don’t think I could have given you that, the way I was when I let you go.  I’m not trying to absolve myself, but I was… wrong, in so many ways.  I didn’t want to compromise your life for anything, so I.  I gave you up.”  He blinks hard and lifts his chin, squaring his shoulders.  “I hope you can forgive me.”

“I-I,” I stammer across the word, finding my stride, “I didn’t come here to… to berate you, or show you up.  That’s not it at all.  I only wanted to… meet you.”  My hands clench into fists and starfish open as I try to find something wise, something meaningful to say.  All I can come up with is:  “That’s all I wanted.”

John’s shoulders slump as if a great weight has been lifted from them.  “Oh.”

“Yeah,” I mumble.  “Um, look.  I don’t expect anything from you, not really.”  Hurt flashes across John’s face and I hasten to add, “But if you want, I would like to… keep in touch with you?  I don’t know.  This is so strange.”

“It is,” John agrees.

“I’m saying I’d like… to have some kind of relationship.  With you.”  I fight not to cringe.  God, Sherlock had it on the nose about my babbling and anxiety.  “I would like to get to know you.”

John stares at me, his mouth turning into a hesitant smile.  He nods slowly.  “I would like that, too.”

He extends his free hand across the space and I reach forward, compelled by a sense of kinship.  Our hands clasp, and for a moment, I’m joined to the pair of them:  me, John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes.

“Tea’s ready,” Mrs. Hudson chimes, sashaying around the corner with a tray in hand.  Sherlock releases John’s hand and stands to offer her help.  Even though the touch is lost, the connection between us remains:  unbreakable, permanent.  I smile at John and he smiles back.  

“Here you are, Cathy,” says Mrs. Hudson, handing me a cup of tea.  I sit back and survey the three.  Sherlock takes his seat again, handing John a cup.  John thanks him and takes a sip, sighing as the steam curls around his face.  Mrs. Hudson sits in the armchair adjacent to mine.  

“I do have questions,” I say, “if you’re willing to answer.  I was wondering if you could tell me about… about my mother.”

Sherlock gives me a wary look.  “What did Alexander tell you?”

“Nothing, really.  He knew her.  But he never talked about her.”  I stare into my teacup, stroking the porcelain edge with my forefinger.  “But that made me think that she could be either good or bad, couldn’t she?  Dad knew her and never spoke ill of her, which made me think she was his friend.  Only he never spoke of her at all.  So I suspected she’d hurt him somehow, but who can hurt you so much you couldn’t speak of them anymore?  I think he cherished her and felt betrayed by her, too.”

John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson watch me for a moment of silence.  Then John smirks at Sherlock.

“Looks like she’s your daughter, too,” he says.

“Pah,” says Sherlock – the quintessential affronted old man.  But his cheeks are tinted pink and he’s not quite smothering his grin as he averts his gaze.  

“Will you tell me?” I press.  “About her?”

John turns to me.  “It’s a long story.  And it will hurt.  But… it’s a story you deserve to hear.”  He slips his hand into Sherlock’s again, threading their fingers together.  Sherlock looks at John and nods.  His soft, silver-green gaze seems to say, _I’m right here._

John draws a steadying breath.  “It started,” he says, “like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading Mr. Psychopath. If you commented, left kudos, or simply read when you had the time - thank you. Mr. Psychopath is my first completed Sherlock fan fiction and, though it is a dark, dense story, I'm very proud of it. 
> 
> If you want to show your appreciation for this fic, please consider leaving a comment or recc'ing it to your followers on Tumblr/wherever. Also, if you have any questions or would like to discuss, feel free to voice them in the comments, or you can contact me on my Tumblr (Zingiberis). I'm happy to answer.


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